


Careful the Tale You Tell

by tiptoe39



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: But Honestly We Love Him Anyway, Getting Together, Hockey, Kent Gets His Head Screwed on Straight, Kent is an Asshole, Kent tells himself Stories, Las Vegas, Las Vegas Aces, M/M, National Hockey League, New York City, Providence Falconers, Psychology, Romance, Stanley Cup Finals, Therapy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-09
Updated: 2016-12-09
Packaged: 2018-09-07 12:04:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 33,724
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8800147
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tiptoe39/pseuds/tiptoe39
Summary: Kent has been telling himself a story, ever since the Q. It's the epic story of Parse and Zimms, and he's in love with it. But sometimes life gets in the way of the stories we tell ourselves.





	1. Providence

**Author's Note:**

  * For [estrelaisa](https://archiveofourown.org/users/estrelaisa/gifts).



> The first huge thank you goes to my Swawesome Santa recipient, estrelaisa. Your prompt gave me license to tell the story about Kent and Tater that I've been dying to tell for months. I hope you enjoy it.
> 
> To my cheerleaders and betas, [chartreuser](http://archiveofourown.org/users/chartreuser/pseuds/chartreuser) and [phdmama](http://archiveofourown.org/users/phdmama/pseuds/phdmama), thank you for cheering when this story worked, being honest where and when it didn't work, and helping me get it to a place where I was happy with it. And to [morganoconner](http://archiveofourown.org/users/morganoconner/pseuds/morganoconner), thank you for your incredible cheerleading and help as I was doing the hard work of getting the words to paper. I owe you so much.
> 
> My hope is that this can be a fic for those who don't quite "get" this pairing but are willing to try. I really find their personality dynamics interesting, and I hope you all will enjoy it as much as I enjoyed writing it.
> 
> PS. [Irollforinitiative,](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Irollforinitiative/pseuds/Irollforinitiative) Buxxy and Fitz are for you!

_This is ridiculous! What am I doing here?_  
_I’m in the wrong story!_  
_\--Into the Woods_

Kent Parson is not ready for his story to be over.

He couldn’t explain this to anyone else; they’d only ask him what in the hell he was talking about. To the world at large, Kent’s story is just beginning, or near its peak. He’s rich, famous, athletic, popular, and the captain of a Stanley Cup-winning hockey team. He owns a far-too-big mansion on the outskirts of Vegas, and he commutes to the rink in the kind of sports car that makes people ejaculate on sight. He’s blond and gorgeous and could have any girl or guy he wanted -- almost.

Kent could craft any story he wanted from this position of power. At least, that’s what it looks like. But there’s one narrative he’s been clinging to from the beginning, and he still thrills to it, still dreams of what it will look like when it all comes to fruition.

It’s the epic tale of Parse and Zimms, and Kent is in love with it, always has been.

In love with it, maybe, more than in love with Zimms himself. It’s such a goddamn good story, though. Kent’s the scrappy kid from the wrong side of the tracks. Jack’s the prince in the ivory tower. They fell in love despite all odds, they were torn apart by fate, and now it’s Kent’s job to climb to glory and win his prince back. Together, the two of them will be unstoppable.

Only Kent’s slain the dragon. His name’s on Lord Stanley’s silver toilet bowl, and he’s captain of the Aces. The Ace of Hearts, even. But a single ace isn’t enough to win a game. He needs his jack. And Jack just isn’t interested.

Maybe, Kent thinks lately, he just hasn’t slain the right dragon yet. Maybe he needs to do it right in front of Jack’s face. Maybe the story isn’t meant to climax until they meet on the ice, eye to eye. When Jack can see for himself just how good they’d be together.

Which means today is the day Kent gets everything he ever wanted.

It’s a late October morning. They’ve taken the red-eye out of Vegas, and most of the team got a few hours of sleep on the plane. A good thing, because the bus takes them to the hotel to drop off their stuff, then right on back to the rink for morning skate. The home team, they’re told, will be there later.

They have a good skate, even though the guys are tired after the late-night flight and groggy with the time change. It’s still only seven a.m. their time, and they play tonight. Afterward, everybody piles back up onto the bus to head back to the hotel for a sorely needed nap.

Everybody but Kent.

Kent watches them go, waving from the sidewalk as the bus pulls away. Then he heads right back into the arena. Kent plants himself in a shaded corner of the lobby and slips on his headphones to listen to music while he waits. As he waits, he dozes, and he imagines or dreams exactly what will happen once the clatter of twenty hockey players entering the building wakes him.

He’ll wait from this corner, watching the Falconers as they make their way through the lobby and into the clubhouse. Jack will bring up the rear, talking to some other rookie, and as he’s about to go through the door, Kent will hiss “Zimms!”

Jack will turn. Pause. His eyes will lock with Kent’s. And he’ll tell the other rookie to go in without him, and hurry to the corner, scowling. “What the hell are you doing here?” he’ll say.

Kent will toss him a casual grin. “Just thought I’d stop by to say, I’m not gonna go easy on you tonight.”

And Jack’s eyebrows will knot into a V, and an answering smile will slide onto his face. “Wouldn’t want it any other way,” he’ll reply.  The electricity will crackle between them, like it did then, and when they meet in that faceoff circle a few hours later, it’ll be nothing short of magic.

Kent opens his eyes with a start. How long has he been dozing? Noise from the rink echoes through the hall to tell him the answer: too long. He’s missed the Falcs’ entrance entirely, and they’re already on the ice practicing. Shit. Time for Plan B. Kent will corner Jack on his way out. He makes his way through the hallways and stakes out a spot near the home team’s locker room, then waits patiently for practice to be over.

This time, he doesn’t fall asleep. He hears the hiss of showers starting up, the laughter and shouts of a team getting psyched up for a game. Kent stands his ground. Won’t be long now until they start pouring out, and then he’ll have the moment he’s waited all day for.

But when the locker room door finally opens, it’s not the whole team that comes through. It’s one guy, that giant Russian idiot the press goes nuts over, Alexei Mashkov. Kent’s come up against him a few times in his career. They might have even been at the same charity event once or twice. Posed for a few pictures. Certainly they can’t have exchanged more than a dozen words.

Mashkov, wearing a wet head and sweats, blinks at him. “Kent Parson,” he says. “What you doing here?”

“I’m, uh.” Kent pulls himself together. “I’m here to see Zimmermann.”

“Here to see Zimmboni?” Is Mashkov a moron? Why is he surprised at this? And what the hell kind of a nickname is Zimmboni, anyway?

Kent clucks his tongue impatiently. “Yeah, Zimms. Just tell him I’m here, would you?”

“Okey-dokey!” Mashkov says, pleasant as anything, and retreats into the locker room. The big dope. Can’t have two brain cells in that gigantic head of his. Whatever. The next time that door opens it’ll be Jack, and then they’re gonna have a _moment._

But when the door opens again, it’s Mashkov. He looks a little shell-shocked. “Sorry, Kent Parson,” he says. “Jack says he not wanting to see you.”

The words fall on Kent like a boulder. He sputters. “He doesn’t -- that’s fucking -- _Zimms_!” He tries to muscle his way past Mashkov and into the locker room, but the giant idiot’s surprisingly quick, and he gets between Kent and the door.

“He’s _not wanting to see you_ ,” Mashkov repeats grimly. He scowls down at Kent.

“The _fuck_ he doesn’t. Zimms!” Kent shouts again, but there’s loud laughter coming from within, and he knows he won’t be heard over the din. He scowls at Mashkov a minute, then rolls his eyes. “Whatever. Just tell him I’m going to kick his ass tonight.”

Kent turns on his heel and marches back up the hallway toward the lobby. He can feel Mashkov’s eyes on him the whole way.

* * *

The game is a clusterfuck. They’ve tied it up toward the end of third period, and Kent hasn’t had the chance to so much as lock eyes with Jack. When he finally does, Jack returns his gaze for less than a second before blowing right past him, unfazed, and jamming the puck into the net. Kent’s blood boils. Jack doesn’t get to blow him off again. Not this time.

Which is how Kent ends up slamming the puck, and himself, and the goalie, into the net at once. A minute later, he’s on the bottom of an eight-man pile-up, and another minute after that, he’s been picked up by the nape of his jersey by that giant Russian idiot, who is swearing a blue streak at him. Jesus, he’s even bigger this close. Kent casts a curious gaze at him, trying to get his head around the sheer size of the guy. For an instant, Mashkov’s expression changes, and then he’s tossing Kent to the side and helping his teammates up. When the refs call the goal as good, Kent mostly enjoys the disbelief on Jack’s face, but seeing Mashkov blow his top is nearly as fun.

Fun, but when the game is over and the crowds have gone, Kent feels like he’s run out of gas. He’s been up all day, save those few minutes dozing in the lobby, and when the guys want to go clubbing to celebrate their victory all Kent can think is that the music is gonna give him a headache. He waves off the guys and wanders, on foot, out into downtown Providence.

It’s not long before he finds a sports bar, a relatively quiet place this late after the game, where he can nurse a beer and watch commentators jawbone about the game. Kent looks up at the screens, feeling uncomfortably dismal, not really knowing what to do about it. He got what he wanted tonight. He kicked Jack’s ass, as promised. But where’s his payoff? Where’s the text from Jack, telling him he was amazing tonight, and did he want to get together before Kent’s plane back to Vegas takes off tomorrow?

He hasn’t really thought this through, has he?

The bar door opens, and someone -- a tall man in a jacket -- comes in. Kent doesn’t glance at him until he’s taken the next stool over. What is this guy doing, trying to crowd him? There’s a whole fucking bar to sit at. Kent looks over to one side, pondering moving, then glances at his new neighbor to gauge whether he’d kick up a fuss if Kent just slid one stool over to get some personal space.

He immediately wishes he hadn’t looked.

It’s Mashkov.

Mashkov nods at him, a silent acknowledgment, then flags down the bartender and orders a vodka on the rocks. Kent looks away pointedly. As Mashkov gets his drink and sips it, thankfully without a word, Kent focuses his gaze on the TV screens just in time to see Jack’s name flash across the bottom of the screen. _ZIMMERMANN’S GREAT ESCAPE,_ it says.

The commentator doesn’t seem to think it’s so great. “Honestly, it’s disappointing,” he’s saying. “Zimmermann keeps disappointing me. I thought he’d take Parson head-on. But instead, he pulls that trick out and zooms away -- is it because Zimmermann doesn’t feel he has enough experience yet to face Parson head-to-head? Is he scared? There’s no room for being scared in the NHL. Zimmermann needs to man up _._ ”

Kent abruptly wants to throw something at the screen.

“You should not watch those,” Mashkov says. Oh, shit, Mashkov’s talking to him. He’s sucking down another sip of his drink, eyes fixed on the bottles behind the bar. He watches neither Kent nor the screen.

“It’s bullshit,” Kent says. “Jack wasn’t scared. He saw the lane open and he took it. It was a good play.”

“Was,” Mashkov agrees, and falls silent.

The dead air drags on Kent’s nerves. He has to fill it. “Where do they get off telling him to man up?” he says. “They’re not down there on the ice. They don’t know what it’s like down there. What do they want Jack to do, bench-press a fucking Buick?”

Now Mashkov’s gaze shoots in Kent’s direction. “You mad for Zimmboni?”

“Zimm… .” Kent makes a face at the nickname, but leaves it uncommented on. “Zimms was my friend. I don’t like these assholes talking shit about my friends.”

“It is being their job,” Mashkov comments. “But I don’t like either. Don’t listen, most of the time.” He pauses. “You say Zimms _was_ friend. You not friends now?”

“We--” Kent stiffens. “That’s none of your business.”

“Okay, okay.” Mashkov offers him a wide smile. “I am being too curious. Sorry.”

Kent studies him. He didn’t expect that ready capitulation -- if anything, he thought Mashkov would press him on it, given his aggressiveness in that pileup. If the shoe were on the other foot, Kent would sure as hell pry. But Mashkov seems content to just sit there next to him and make some attempt at friendly conversation. Which makes less and less sense the longer Kent sits there thinking about it.

“Hey,” he says, and coughs when his voice comes out rough.

Mashkov tilts his head. “Hm? Yes?”

“What--” Kent frowns. “What are you doing here?”

“Am drinking.” Mashkov hoists his tumbler as if to prove it. The ice clinks in his glass.

“But here.” Kent touches the bar with one hand. “Right next to me. Talking. Why?”

Mashkov twists his lips to one side, pursing them like he’s trying to throw a sideways kiss. “Is… good question,” he says thoughtfully after a moment. “I want to know who you are, I think.”

“Who I am?” All of that is a matter of public record. Mashkov could go to Wikipedia, if that’s what he wants. “Why?”

“You are interesting. Your play interesting. Also, cute.” Mashkov gives a short laugh. His gaze sweeps over Kent, just for a second, but it’s long enough. It’s the sort of look Kent gives, all the time, when he sees a boytoy he’d like to take home. To guys who swing his way, it’s a signal; to guys who don’t, it means nothing.

And Kent swings that way, even if he hadn’t before thought of Mashkov as a prospect. But why not? He’s tall, sinewy and grabbable in all the right places. “If that’s what you were looking for, we could have done that without all the conversation,” Kent informs him, and slides a hand onto his knee.

Mashkov shakes him off. “That not what I am wanting,” he says. “Wanting to know you.”

Kent returns his hand to his beer bottle. “Okay, yeah, not interested,” he says flatly.

Mashkov doesn’t answer. Thank God. That’s _that_ conversation over with.

Kent spins his beer bottle between his palms. Mashkov is still there. He’s not leaving. He’s just sipping, content, not asking for _anything._ That throws Kent entirely. He’s used to people wanting things from him. What the hell Mashkov is still doing here, he has no fucking idea.

He clears his throat. “Besides,” he says. “Thought you already decided who I am. Little rat, right?”

But Mashkov shakes his head. “I’m wrong about that, I think.”

“Wrong?”

“Yes. Wrong. You are not rat,” Mashkov says, dangling his tumbler with thumb and forefinger. The liquid washes from side to side. “You are mouse.”

“Mouse?” Kent revs up at this, ready for it to be an insult. Ready to be outraged.

But Mashkov just looks at him sideways and lets out a soft hmm. “Yes. Mouse, I think. Afraid to come out of your hole.”

Okay, that settles it, Mashkov’s full of shit. “I’m not afraid of anything.”

“Of course not.” Mashkov rests the tumbler on the edge of the bar. “It’s just your hole is so comfortable, right? So why come out?”

That… feels a little closer to the mark. Kent _is_ comfortable where he is. And why shouldn’t he be? Captain of a winning team, rich as fuck and twice as handsome -- the world is his oyster. What could he possibly be missing that’s outside of the luxurious existence he’s carved for himself? He’s exactly where he wants to be, doing exactly what he wants to do.

Except he’s in a dive bar, listening to a guy insult him in broken English. _That’s_ exactly where he wants to be?

“How’d you find me?” he asks. “Did you follow me out here?”

“I did not.” Mashkov has finished his drink and is now drawing rings around the edge of his glass with a long finger. The glass squeaks a bit.

Kent winces at the noise. “So what, this is just some crazy coincidence?”

Mashkov cocks his head toward Kent. “Could be fate,” he suggests with a wicked grin.

Oh, God. Kent rolls his eyes. “I told you to cut that shit out.” Mashkov’s gaze is still on him.  “Are you legit making a pass at me?”

This gets a shrug from Mashkov. “Make pass, not make pass… sounds like hockey talk to me.” The grin goes from wicked and purposeful to wide and jolly -- Mashkov apparently thinks he’s hysterical. “I don’t know, little mouse. I make pass, you catch it?”

Sounds more like football than hockey. “I’m on the other team,” Kent reminds him. “It’s my job to fuck up your passes.”

“Hah!” Mashkov throws his head back and laughs loudly. Kent wonders how strong his drink is. He drains his beer and eyes the exit.

Mashkov sees him looking. “What you say we get out of here?” he says.

“We?” Kent echoes. Is Mashkov being contrary or just stupid? “I’m not sleeping with you, Mashkov.”

The jaunty tilt of Mashkov’s body disappears in one fluid motion. Sitting up straight, all his height suddenly apparent, Mashkov frowns at him, eyes serious. “I not ask for that.” He presses the words into the air deliberately, one by accented one. “I did not ask for that, Kent Parson. You understand me?”

“Fine, yeah, I understand you.” Kent feels a little like he did during the scrum, suddenly overwhelmed by this gigantic man. “Then what do you want?”

Mashkov’s shoulders relax. He curls back into an easy slump, minimizing his height. “I’m thinking, why we don’t go out? Have fun.”

“Where the hell are we going to go late at night in Providence, of all places?” Vegas is up all night, but Kent is fairly sure Providence is a little more restrained.

Mashkov shrugs. “Around.”

“ _Around?”_

* * *

 

 _Around,_ it turns out, is along the back streets of Providence. Along the water, by the statues and landmarks that dot the city. Kent follows him, not knowing why, as Mashkov leads him down to the footpaths near the canal and picks up a stone to huck into the dark water. It disappears with a thick _plonk_.

“This is what you do for fun in this city?” Kent says. “Throw rocks?”

“Thought you would like,” Mashkov returns with a grin. “Since you like fighting so much.”

“What does that have to do with --” but Mashkov is bending over at the waist, butt in the air as he scours the path for another pebble. Wow, that’s a hockey butt for sure. Doesn’t look huge because Mashkov’s huge all over, but it’s there and it’s solid.

Oh, what the fuck is he _thinking?_

Kent is still lost in befuddlement when Mashkov straightens up and dumps a rock into his hand. “You give try.”

“...All right.” Kent winds up and gives it a good baseball throw out into the river. _Huh._ It is kind of fun to see how far it goes, satisfying to hear the gulping noise and see how completely it’s swallowed. For an instant, he envies it.

“See? Is fun. Come on.” Mashkov breaks into a jog. Kent blinks, then follows, trying to ignore the fact that the night air also feels damn good.

They wander into a park area, gardens enclosed by gates and old-style buildings looming gray in the darkness, and Mashkov tells him, “This is historical place. Is full of history of Providence, when English came over and settled. Historical buildings, historical gardens. Very famous.”

“Why’s it famous?” Kent asks.

“I’m… not sure,” Mashkov admits.

Kent laughs. “You’re so full of shit.”

“I am.” Mashkov puffs out his chest proudly. “And you are still here.”

Kent shakes his head slowly. “Yeah, what the fuck.”

“What the _fuck_ ,” Mashkov repeats, a little louder.

“No, man, that’s my line. What the **_fuck._** ” Kent raises his voice.

“ _What the fuck_!” Mashkov replies, even louder than that.

“WHAT THE FUCK,” Kent shouts, because somehow, now it’s a game.

“ _WHAT THE FUCK!”_ Mashkov booms.

Kent grins and yells at the top of his lungs. “ ** _WHAT THE FUCK!!!”_**

“You tell _me_ what the fuck!” shouts some kid from across the street. “Shut up, man!”

Kent looks over at him, then at Mashkov, and bursts out laughing. Mashkov laughs too, a wild, ringing sound. Like fools, they stand there outside the oh-so-famous historical gardens and laugh themselves silly. Kent tries to gather himself. His smile itches at his face. Some tightly coiled piece of him has loosened.

Mashkov wipes his eyes with two gigantic fingers. “That was fun!” he says, and lets a few little trickles of laughter shake his shoulders again before he straightens up and gathers himself. “So. You like ice cream?”

* * *

The ice cream shop is open until 3 a.m., a haven for the local college students, and the ice cream itself is liquor-flavored -- coconut rum ice cream for Kent, Grand Marnier-flavored for Mashkov. “Too bad there’s no vodka flavor,” Kent says.

“You think because I’m Russian, I’m always drinking vodka?” Mashkov sniffs.

“Yeah, because I’m a bigoted asshole like that,” Kent answers flatly. “You were drinking vodka earlier, jerkoff.”

“ _You_ were paying attention,” Mashkov rejoins, and Kent does his level best not to blush.

They take their ice cream cones and wander south to the waterfront, where the canal opens to a wider river. There’s a pier, with some boats moored for the night. Kent peers through the darkness to see their names. _Her Mystery,_ one reads. _Nantucket Bound._ There’s even one called _Falconers Point_ , and Kent wonders if someone on the team is a sailor in his spare time. Mashkov says nothing, though, and folds himself up like a card table at the end of the pier, legs crossed as he sits on the slatted wood and looks out at the water.

Kent checks his phone. It’s nearly 3 already. If he’s sleep-deprived at this point, it’s rolled over into him feeling awake and wired again. The sugar helps with that, he figures, and he sits down beside Mashkov on the pier, licking around the rim of the cone to keep the ice cream from dripping sticky goodness all over his fingers. He’s only partially successful.

“Is late,” Mashkov says. “I should be taking you back to hotel and putting you in bed?”

“Nah, nah, I’m good. I feel good.” Which is funny, because it’s true. “What’s open at this hour? Anything?”

Mashkov spreads his arms like he’s a giant goose trying to take flight. “World,” he says. “Whole world is open.”

Kent tries not to snicker. “Guess it is.”

“Why you go see Zimmboni today?” Mashkov asks.

Kent wavers. The lack of sleep and the sugar and the lingering effects of the beer all make him want to talk more than he’s talked in a long time, but there’s a difference between _talking_ and _telling the truth._ “I told you. I wanted to tell him I was gonna kick his ass.”

“Hah!” Mashkov’s laugh is just a bit derisive, and Kent prickles.

“I _did_ kick his ass _,”_ he points out.

“You did not,” says Mashkov. “You kick goalie’s ass instead.” And now he’s frowning, and it’s the first sign of disapproval he’s given Kent all night. For whatever reason, it hurts a hell of a lot more than when Mashkov was swearing at him on the ice.

“Yeah. Sorry about that,” he offers.

“You’re not sorry.”

Fuck, that flat voice is freaking him out for some reason. “I am, though. What’s his name? Snow? He didn’t deserve to get fucking piledrived.”

“I should be messing you up for you mess with Snowy,” Mashkov informs him crankily.

But he doesn’t move, and Kent finally gives in and asks. “Why don’t you?”

Mashkov’s frown abates, and in its place is something that’s not quite a smile. “I told you. You are interesting.”

“Oh.” Kent shifts his weight on the wood of the pier. It creaks under him. “Lucky me, I guess.”

They finish their ice cream and sit in silence for a time. Kent tries to figure out what in the hell is going on. A few hours ago, this guy hated his guts, was calling him a rat. Now, a drink and a walk and an ice cream later, they’re killing time together like best friends. Kent’s been in hockey enough to know that what happens on the ice doesn’t often extend beyond the walls of the arena, but this reversal is weird enough to confuse him. What did he do, to make Mashkov decide he was interesting enough to pursue? How did fate conspire to bring them into the same bar? And what the hell kind of lesson is he supposed to glean from his encounter? It’s all beyond him, and he feels like he’s dropped into a world where nothing is quite what it appears. Parson in Wonderland.

“You’re one hell of a white rabbit,” he mutters in Mashkov’s direction.

Mashkov blinks at him confusedly, but doesn’t answer. Kent doesn’t bother to explain.

After several more quiet minutes, Mashkov sits back, tilting his head up to look at the sky. “Tell me about Kent Parson,” he says.

Kent starts. “Tell you? What about me?”

“Everything.”

“Well.” That’s not a whole hell of a lot. “I was born in New York. Albany. I was a Rangers fan growing up. Hell, you were a Ranger, you know how fucked up that is.” He gives a short laugh. “Mom worked hard to get me my hockey gear. Dad… did his part too, I guess. Scouts snatched me up when I was 10 and here I am.”

“That all?” Mashkov takes a bite of his ice cream and shudders with the chill of it against the cool October night. “That not everything.”

And no, he’s right, it’s not. The way Kent tells it, it sounds easy. But it was never easy. None of it’s been easy. Kent’s been fighting his whole fucking life. Ever since the schoolyard, when his mom taught him to punch upward and hit the bully in the jaw, Kent’s been punching up. Up to the coaches who doubted him, up to the lovers who spurned him. Up to every opponent he faces on the ice. Some people say Kent’s on top now, but he’s not. He’s always got someone challenging him, threatening to throw him down to the wolves. And that means he’s got to keep punching.

He can’t punch Mashkov. For some reason, Mashkov’s decided to stoop to his level. And Kent can’t fight that, not when it feels so weirdly welcome.

He shakes his head. “No, really, that’s everything. I was a kid, and then hockey happened. Fucking fascinating, isn’t it?”

“Not everything,” Mashkov insists. “For example, you not telling me about you and Zimmboni.”

Kent’s heart skips, but he forces a derisive laugh. “I’m not telling some stranger about my personal shit.”

“We’re not strangers. We spend all night together.”

“Fair enough.” Kent sighs. “I’ll tell you what. You meet me in the Stanley Cup final and I’ll tell you everything.”

Mashkov stretches out his hand for Kent to shake. “Is deal.”

Kent takes him up on the handshake. He wonders if he’ll ever get over the absurd length of Mashkov’s hands. It’s not that they’re big -- all of him’s big -- but they’re a mile long. His fingers go on forever. Kent stares at them in the low light.

It’s only then that he realizes morning’s come.

“Shit,” he says, turning to face the hint of red on the horizon. “I have a flight. I have to go back to the hotel and get packed. Where’s the Marriott? Should I grab a cab?” He gets to his feet and brushes the dust of the city off his ass.

“Is not far. We walk.”  Mashkov unfolds next to him. Kent is momentarily dumbstruck by the sheer amount of man beside him. His limbs, like his hands, are insanely long.

They leave the waterfront area and stride back toward the thickly packed buildings of downtown. “You sleep on flight,” Mashkov tells him as they walk. He bumps against Kent’s shoulder, a hard nudge that sends Kent stepping to the side to regain his balance. It’s Mashkov being annoying, but Kent can’t find it in himself to be irritated. Somehow Mashkov annoying him is… comfortable.

“Yeah, I will,” he says. “Sleep all day, probably.” They walk another half-block. “Hey, um… thanks for this.”

“No problem. Was good date.”

Kent goes red. “Date?”

“Sure.” Mashkov’s smile is wide and toothy. “I’m wanting to know you, we go out, spend night. Is date.”

And damn it, Kent should go straight from embarrassment to anger, but he just can’t. Mashkov is screwing up all his emotions somehow. “All right,” he says, grinning back. “So what, I get walked to my door, get a good night kiss, maybe?”

This time, Mashkov’s the one to blush. Kent bites back a laugh at the color in Mashkov’s cheeks, his flummoxed expression. “I-- I’m not asking for that,” Mashkov says, stopping in the middle of the deserted sidewalk.

A flood of fondness hits Kent in the chest then, and he realizes that maybe he’s only half-joking. He’s sleep-deprived and loose and full of warmth right now, and Mashkov’s huge and close. “I’d let you,” he says, the words coming in an easy, soft drawl. “I’d let you kiss me, Mashkov.”

Mashkov stammers and deflects. “A-- Alexei is name. Tater also okay.”

“Alexei?” Kent muses. “Nah, s’too long. Alex.”

“Alex _another_ Russian skater.” Mashkov curls his lip.

“Fine. Whatever.” Kent bumps against him, a gentler shoulder nudge than before. “Tater, huh? I’ll call you Tate.”

“Tate is too short.”

“Too bad. You’re Tate.” Kent smirks up at him. “You gonna kiss me or what?”

Mashkov seems to have himself together now. “I’m not kissing you, little mouse. You’re tired. You go to sleep, wake up, regret it.”

“Ask me in December whether I regret it,” Kent pushes.

“What is December?”

“It’s when you guys are coming out to Vegas,” Kent says irritably. He’s not used to having to fight this hard to seduce someone. “Don’t you read your own schedules?”

Mashkov blinks. “You memorize? Very smart.”

“I _am_ smart,” Kent says. “You should be begging to kiss a smart guy like me.”

“You have big mouth to go with big brain,” Mashkov says. But then he falls silent, and his gaze drops to Kent’s mouth. Kent’s skin prickles. He eggs Mashkov on. Steps closer.

Mashkov --   _Alexei_ , Kent thinks with a start -- looks around at the quiet city block. Then he lifts a hand to Kent’s face, touching his cheek and jaw with those impossibly long fingers. Kent’s heart rises to his throat. He tilts his head up. Alexei’s forehead touches his.

“Maybe I kiss you in December,” Alexei murmurs, and pulls away.

Kent stammers something that might be a word and might not.

But Alexei’s already beating a retreat. “Your hotel right there!” he shouts as he goes. “Have good flight!” Off he strides, one arm lifted in a wave, the other swinging mightily at his side. And Kent is left alone in front of his hotel, thoroughly confused and a little frustrated. And a little of something else he can’t define.

He sleeps on the plane, as promised. But when he wakes up, as they’re touching down to Vegas, he’s just as confused.

  
  



	2. Las Vegas

December comes, and with it a faux Southwest Santa madness descends on the Strip. Kent still goes there sometimes, eschewing the aloofness of most Vegas natives to embrace the kitsch and the crowds. It’s not that he’s a big gambler, but a game of chance is still a game, and he feels weirdly at home here among the fake and inflated. It’s not an aspect of himself he cares to look at very closely.

They play the Falcs tomorrow. In a way, Kent feels like he’s been in a time warp since October, waiting for this weekend to happen. He’s played, and he’s existed, but the story’s been on hold. He had it all wrong back in Providence, when he thought the magic moment would happen on Jack’s ice. It’s going to happen now, here. Now that Jack’s been in the rink with him once, seen him play. This is the time when Jack contacts him, says he wants to get together. Says he felt it again, that connection and the urgency the two of them always felt when they were on the same ice. This is the part when he tells Kent he wants to keep feeling it for the rest of his life.

Only Jack’s not calling. Kent happens to know that the Falcs landed earlier this afternoon, and after a brief practice have the evening off to enjoy the sights and sounds of Vegas before tomorrow’s game. So Kent’s pretty sure that Jack is somewhere on the Strip, at a slot machine or bar or walking around taking pictures of the sweaty men in Santa suits and plastic trees festooned with ornaments. And Kent just happens to be walking the Strip himself. So who knows, maybe they’re destined to run into each other. Eventually.

Only Kent’s walked the length and back again, and there’s been no sign of him. Maybe he needs to start weaving in and out of side streets? There’s a small part of him that scoffs at that -- at all of this. Kent doesn’t listen to that part of him often. It likes to deconstruct the scaffolding Kent’s built around his life, to tear down the structure that Kent relies on. Kent depends on this story to tell him where to go, and without it, he’s lost, randomly wandering Vegas with no aim and no meaning. He firmly squelches that dissenting voice and turns down one of the side streets.

Annoyed by the distraction, he pulls out his phone and cycles through his apps. No texts, no messages. Twitter’s notifs are a blur of “<3 u Kent” and “pls follow me.” Email’s full of spam. He clicks on Instagram next. It, at least, tends to be fairly well organized.

**a91mashkov** **_:_ ** _love las vegas! zimmboni and me in front of palace casino._

Kent’s heart kicks into overdrive. The picture is of Alexei and Jack, Alexei’s arm thrown over Jack’s shoulder, in front of the Palace -- right around the corner. Kent checks the timestamp. It was posted about ten minutes ago. Which means if he hurries…

He wheels and starts motoring back toward the main drag. By the time he reaches the Palace, he’s a little out of breath,and his heartbeat is echoing noisily in his ears. There’s no sign of Jack or Alexei anywhere. Maybe they’ve moved on to the next attraction. Or maybe they’re inside. How is Kent supposed to know? He sits on a bench in the plaza that sprawls in front of the casino and rifles off a quick comment.

**realKentParson:** _just missed you guys._

A minute later, a direct message comes in.

**a91mashkov:** _you at palace now? I come say hello!_

Kent rolls his eyes. That’s just great. That’s just what he needed. Alexei coming by to say hello. But hey, maybe Zimms will be with him, or if not, maybe Alexei will know where Zimms went. Maybe this all will go the way he wants it to anyway.

Or maybe a gigantic hockey player will stride across the plaza and pick him up into a huge hug with not so much as a word of hello.

Kent is engulfed in Alexei’s embrace all at once, after looking up from his phone just long enough to get a glimpse of a wide grin and a pair of insanely long arms reaching for him. He struggles and gasps for breath, tasting the fabric of Alexei’s jacket at his shoulder, and endures being squeezed within an inch of his life for a long minute before Alexei lets him go.

“Kent Parson!” Alexei announces happily, holding him by both shoulders. “It has been long time! You’re hanging out in front of casino like gambler. You need I loan you money?” He throws back his head and laughs, and Kent fully expects to get a headache in his eye.

He doesn’t, though. Instead, he’s assaulted with a feeling halfway like fondness. The other half is exasperation, sure, but he’s strangely glad to see this big idiot and his miles-wide smile. He hasn’t thought too much about the night they spent together two months ago -- there hardly seems that much to think about -- but he remembers this feeling, the inexplicable warmth that had coursed through him at the sight of Alexei in the early morning light, big and luminous and patient by his side.

“Tate,” he says, and lifts his hand to clap Alexei on the arm. “How’s it going?”

“Good, is good!” Alexei purses his mouth. “Well, okay, is not so good. We losing a little bit these days. Not lose to you tomorrow, though.”

“We’ll see about that,” Kent rejoins. Abruptly, he remembers his aim in getting Alexei here. “Say, where’d Zimms go? He was with you in that picture.”

Alexei fixes him with a frown. “You not wanting to see me,” he declares sourly. “Only wanting to see Zimmboni.”

“No, no, man. I’m happy to see you.” It boggles Kent’s mind that this is actually true. “Been trying to catch up with Jack for a while, is all.” That part’s true enough, too. It doesn’t tell the whole story, but Alexei decidedly doesn’t need to know the whole story. Nobody wants to know they’re just a bit player. Kent’s already cast him. Alexei is the goofy court jester who unwittingly aids the two princes in getting together. He’s pleasant and amusing, and Kent will tolerate having him along for the ride until he gets into the same room with Jack. Then, well, exeunt the jester stage right.

“I text him,” Alexei says, pulling out his phone. “Maybe he’s coming out to meet us.” Kent tries to ignore the skeptical downturn of Alexei’s eyebrows as he thumbs at the screen. He considers telling Alexei to keep his presence a secret. Get Jack out here without him knowing what awaits him. But Kent’s supposed to be the hero of this story, not the villain. Tricking Jack isn’t part of the plot. The whole _point_ is that Jack’s supposed to want to see him again. Kent will just believe in that.

Alexei presses his thumbs to the screen a few more times and returns the phone to his pocket. “Okay, texted!” he says. “I tell him we’re at this casino.”

“What did he say?” Kent asks nervously.

“Not answer yet. We wait here?”

“I guess.” But Kent’s stomach has other plans. It picks that moment to make an opportune gurgle. Alexei looks down at his stomach, then back up at his face, and fails entirely to hold back a laugh.

“Yeah, you shut up,” Kent tells Alexei with a pointed finger. “You too,” he adds, pointing down to his stomach. It doesn’t listen. Another moment and it’s letting out a reprise of its earlier refrain, leading Alexei to snort and Kent to sigh. “All right, shut up, both of you,” he says, sounding less irritable than he means to. “I suppose we could go get a bite while we wait on Zimms. You up for it?”

Alexei nods like an overeager puppy. Damn, but the sight of his grin is doing something funny to Kent’s insides. He pointedly ignores it and strides forward into the casino.

* * *

Kent and Alexei are making a scene.

At first it was by arguing loudly about where to eat. (Kent wanted the buffet; Alexei was angling for the steakhouse. Kent won.) Then it was by piling their plates so high with food -- multiple plates per man -- that it was an impressive display of balance and dexterity to get all of it to the table. And after their spread was deposited on the table, they set about eating with all the vigor of a pair of men who expend several thousand calories on the ice each day. Alexei is not the quietest eater in the world. Kent refuses to be outdone in terms of how much he can stuff into his mouth at one time. Out of the corner of his eye, he thinks he sees a few members of the waitstaff gathered in a corner, casting judgmental eyes on them. Whatever. He’s Kent fucking Parson. He could buy and sell them five times over.

At one point, it occurs to him that he hasn’t asked Alexei yet if he’s heard back from Jack. But hell, that can wait. It’s not like he wants Jack to walk into the restaurant and see him with a chicken leg stuffed into his craw in obscene fashion. That’s not how things are supposed to go. So the destined meeting can wait until after dinner.

They’re pretty much through the meat and potatoes, and now eyeing the plate of desserts they’ve collaborated on putting together --- cupcakes, slices of pie, little mini-cakes and a scoop of vanilla ice cream -- when Kent senses a presence near them. He turns and finds himself face to face with a blushing college-age girl.

“Um,” she says, “um, are you Kent Parson?”

Alexei frowns. “We busy eating now,” he starts crossly. Kent lifts his hand and silences him.

“Yeah, hi.” he says. “You want a picture?”

“Oh, oh my God, um, yeah, that would be great.” She’s beet red and fidgeting madly, and behind her a gaggle of kids are whispering and stammering. Kent reaches for a napkin and dabs the grease off his cheeks. He gets up and puts his arm around her as she pulls her phone out and shakily gets the camera ready.

“Oh my GOD, Cammie,” one of her friends calls.

“RIGHT?” she declares. Grinning wide, she snaps the photo. Kent leans his head against hers as the shutter goes off. She squeaks.

“I’m eating your desserts, Kent Parson,” Alexei says from behind him. Kent turns and gives him a reproachful look. Alexei, cake in each hand, just flashes a chocolatey smile.

Kent takes photos with the rest of her crew, one by one, and with a middle-aged man who’s come over during the hubbub. Alexei mumbles crankily behind them, but when the man crosses and asks for his autograph, too, he doesn’t refuse.

“That was nice of you,” Alexei says, when the hubbub has died down. “You are being so nice to your fans.”

Kent shrugs. “They’re sort of the reason we get to do what we do.”

“Still.” Why is Alexei so cranky? It’s not like he just got most of his desserts stolen. “Sometimes I’m wanting to feel like normal guys on normal date.”

Kent nearly chokes on the last cupcake. That’s right, Alexei pulled that shit last time, too. “Who decided we were on a date again?”

“Nobody deciding anything,” Alexei said. “I’m just using word. Maybe isn’t right word. Sorry.”

“Yeah, okay.” Kent grabs the last cupcake and unwraps the paper. “Cause it’d be a pretty funny date if Zimms showed up halfway through. Has he texted you back yet?”

“Oh!” Alexei apparently has forgotten all about it. “I check.” He pulls out his phone after wiping his chocolate-covered hands on a paper napkin. Kent bites into the cupcake and watches his face for any sign of a reaction. All he gets is a frown. “He’s not answering,” Alexei says.

“Maybe he didn’t hear it go off. Text him again.”

Alexei shakes his head. “Jack is always checking phone. Sometimes he is not answering. I think, he talks to girlfriend for long time, at night in hotel.”

The cupcake in Kent’s mouth abruptly tastes like sawdust.

He forces himself to swallow. It hurts going down. His hands are shaking as he sets the dessert back on the plate. “Girlfriend?” he echoes carefully.

“I think, yes,” Alexei answers blithely. “Could be boyfriend, I’m not asking.”

The noise and bustle of the casino abruptly feels miles away. Kent’s mind is frozen solid. He never thought. He never imagined.

“Are you sure?” he asks. His voice is choked and hoarse.

Alexei shrugs. “He is obvious. Is always looking at phone and smiling.” He stops, frowns. “Kent Parson, are you okay?”

“I--” But Kent’s lost his voice. He’s lost everything, now. His mind, his bearings… he doesn’t even know where he is anymore. He only knows that this can’t be happening.  This _isn’t part of the story._

And even if it were, it wouldn’t happen like this. He doesn’t find out something this significant through a side comment during dessert. The jester is not supposed to be the bearer of bad news. Kent grabs the sides of his chair, plants his feet on the floor, trying to ground himself. He stares at Alexei, rage bubbling up inside him. How dare he. How _dare_ Alexei do this to him. He has no right. He doesn’t have a say in how this goes.

“You’re wrong,” he hears himself say. “Zimms can’t have a girlfriend. He’s probably watching plays on his phone. You don’t know him like I do.”

But those words taste like a lie in his mouth. He doesn’t know Jack anymore, that much has been clear since last year and that disastrous visit to Samwell. The guy who pulled away when Kent kissed him, the guy who answered so flatly when Kent was baring his soul -- that guy was not the Jack that Kent used to know. Not the same guy who once brushed Kent’s cowlick out of his face and stared at him with eyes wide and wanting. Kent saw that look on Jack when he first showed up -- but Jack was talking to someone else then, and the spark faded the minute Kent made himself known.

Kent’s dizzy. Rage and confusion and disappointment are all welling up in his chest at the same time, and he doesn’t know if he wants to cry or punch something or just throw himself into the middle of the street. He’s got a death grip on his chair, and his shoulders are hunched like they were that night, as he drove back to Boston with his heart torn to shreds. The next day, he gave a Bruins defenseman a concussion. Maybe he should just sock Alexei in the mouth and be done with it.

Only when he looks up, he sees Alexei’s face, and there’s no malice there, no satisfaction. If anything, Alexei looks genuinely troubled. “Kent,” he says softly, “little mouse. I’m have no idea.”

“About what?” Kent forces out. “I’m just telling you, you’re wrong. Jack doesn’t love anything but hockey.”

Alexei leans forward, over the table. His voice is so low only Kent can hear it. “I’m sorry.”

Fuck. _Fuck._ He doesn’t need this. He doesn’t need sympathy. He doesn’t know what to do with it. “Shut up,” he mumbles, and the sound of his fire-laced voice gives him strength. “First of all, you’re wrong. Second of all, shut up. Third, who the fuck needs Zimms anyway? He’ll interrupt our date. Am I right?” And with that, he slams the door firmly on all that inconvenient emotion and paints a smile on his face.

Alexei gazes at him for a long moment. His expression changes, minutely -- the rise and fall of eyebrows, the tension going out of his jaw, the widening of his eyes. Kent doesn’t know what any of it means.

At long last, he sits back, crosses his arms over his chest, and nods. “All right.”

“Right, exactly,” Kent says, though he has no idea what Alexei’s saying _all right_ to. “Let’s go fuck around Vegas for a night, you and me. Zimmermann snoozes, he loses. Sound good?” He extends his hand.

Alexei takes it and shakes it firmly. “We have fun night,” he says, and the words sound more like a challenge than anything. A dare.

Kent’s not going to back down from a dare. “Hell, yeah.”

* * *

They start with a walking tour of the Strip. Alexei’s been here before, but you’d never guess it from the way his eyes shine and he sticks out his finger to point at landmarks, like he’s a twelve-year-old who’s never been to the big city.  Kent agrees irritably every time Alexei thrusts his phone into Kent’s hands and declares, “You take picture!”

A minute after the first snapshot, Alexei stops walking and thumbs at his phone furiously. Kent gets suspicious and peeks … well, not _over_ his shoulder, but around it. It’s as he fears -- Alexei is posting to Instagram.

“Holy shit, hold up, are you insane?” Kent snaps at him.

Alexei frowns in confusion. “What? I’m Instagram posting.”

“Yeah, I can see that, and you’re fucking _insane_ ,”  Kent says. “You always Instagram shit the minute you take the picture? Don’t you get, like, mobbed all the time?”

“What means mobbed?”

Kent rubs his temple with his forefinger. “I mean,” he summons up the patience to explain, “if you Instagram exactly where you are, your fans are gonna run out and find you and demand autographs and shit. Especially when you’re somewhere this recognizable and full of people.”

“Oh.” From the look on his face, Alexei’s never even considered this possibility. “I’m not popular like Kent Parson. Fans aren’t finding me.”

“Well, don’t give them a reason to _start_ finding you,” Kent says with a sigh. “Just… wait ten or fifteen minutes. Until we’re at least on another block. And do me a favor? Don’t mention I’m with you.”

“Or you get …. _mobbed_?”

Kent ignores Alexei’s pleased look. “Yeah, exactly.”

“Will you tell me when is safe to post?”

Not in a million years. “Sure, Tate. Sure.”

* * *

Eventually Alexei finds a casino-hotel complex that he considers “lucky.” Kent follows him in, standing with his hands in his pockets and his head down as Alexei happily surveys the landscape of slot machines. Kent’s starting to feel like he’s walking a dog -- a big puppy with too much energy and a tail that never stops wagging. But at the very least, Alexei’s entertaining, and Kent bites back a smile as he follows him through the rows of machines as Alexei judges each free seat and, one by one, finds them wanting.

Kent wonders what Zimms is doing now. Probably holed up in his hotel room doing stretches or on a treadmill somewhere. Alexei’s story about the potential girlfriend feels more and more like fiction the further out Kent gets from it. It’s bullshit. It has to be. A Jack who could stare at his phone and smile like a loon isn’t the Jack that Kent’s been yearning for all these years. Kent’s story demands a sullen prince in an ivory tower, who brightens only when he sees Kent’s face. Or maybe… maybe if it is true, it doesn’t matter. Maybe it’s meant to happen later in the story, once Kent’s slain the right dragon. Maybe once his glory is recaptured, the love will return in time. One way or another, it’ll work out.

He turns to Alexei, who’s finally found a slot machine he likes, and considers asking him to check again for word from Jack.

Then he sees what machine Alexei’s chosen.

“Holy--” He bites down the curse. He leans forward and hisses at Alexei, “Dude. Why’d you choose that one?”

Alexei grins. “Is obvious. Handsome guy with no shirt.” He gestures to the scantily clad model painted in staggering detail on the side of the machine. The reels go around and around, and land on one charming bachelor, then two, then three. Bells ring, and the total amount of credits increases by a few hundred.

“Tate.” Kent’s tongue clips the _T_ s. “You can’t just sit here and play on that. Someone’s gonna see. Someone’s gonna _guess._ ”

“You think?” Alexei pulls the lever back, and the reels return to giddy spinning. “I think nobody is caring.”

“But you can’t just leave that to _chance_!” Kent’s beside himself. “What if there’s, like, a blogger, or a reporter around? Someone could post a picture of you to Twitter and then you can’t--”

“Kent Parson.” Alexei’s turned to face him. His eyes are dark. “If very good reporter just _happen_ to be here, and just _happen_ to see me, and just _happen_ to know who I am, and just _happen_ to pay attention to machine, and then just _happen_ to guess what means I am playing this machine… then that best reporter in the world and deserve big, big story.”

Kent doesn’t know what to say to that.

* * *

Alexei’s drinking. Kent’s gazing around the casino floor. It’s the standard setup -- table games, slots, and in one corner, a row of screens showing several channels’ worth of sports. He gets an idea. “Hey, wait here for me, okay?” he says, touching Alexei on the shoulder briefly. “I’m gonna go see what the odds are on our game tomorrow.”

He gets up from the bar, but in a flash Alexei’s set down his martini and has grabbed Kent’s wrist. “You not doing that.”

“What the hell?” Kent stares down at Alexei’s big hand. Stupid giant elephant hands. “Let go of me.”

Alexei obeys, but he looks fit to kill, his eyebrows a single dark line over his eyes. “You are not betting on own team, Kent Parson.”

“What? Of course I’m not--”

“You get fired.” Fuck, Alexei is talking way too loudly. “You get kicked out, Kent Parson.”

“I’m not _betting_!” Kent bursts out. “I was just gonna check on the odds!”

“You do that on Internet. Not at casino, Kent Parson! You think I get in trouble Instagram posting and you do this!”

Alexei looks ready to throw down. Kent returns to his seat with a sigh. “Yeah, yeah, okay, whatever you say, Tate, I’ll behave myself.”

“Good.” Alexei returns to drinking his martini ridiculously fast and looking pleased as punch. Maybe Kent should have ordered a drink, too.

* * *

“Okay!” Alexei gets up with a stretch and groan that draws the eyes of half the room. “Drinking time over. I want to be crapping now!”

Kent almost falls out of his chair. “ _What!?_ ”

“Crapping! I want to be crapping!”

Kent should just pretend they’re total strangers, he should get up and go somewhere else, he should do anything but what he’s doing -- getting up and putting a hand on Alexei’s arm in an effort to quiet him. Please, nobody recognize him right now. “Dude. Nobody wants to hear about you crapping. Go take a shit in silence, would you?”

“What? Don’t want that. Want to crapping. With dice, and...” Alexei mimics a throw with his hand.

Kent’s outrage dissolves in an instant. He bursts out laughing, doubling over and having to brace himself against the barstool to stay upright. “Holy shit, Tate,” he manages between gales of laughter. “Holy _shit_ , you want to _play craps,_ oh my _God._ ”

“Not making fun!” There’s a pout in Alexei’s voice, though Kent’s too busy catching his breath to look at him. “I’m not speaking a lot of English!”

“Dude, I’m _sorry,_ but…” Kent actually has to wipe his eyes. His stomach hurts, but he manages to straighten up. Still gulping in air, he casts a glance at Alexei, shaking his head.

The smile falls off his face. Alexei’s looking at him with a tiny half-smile of amusement and eyes that Kent doesn’t know how to read. It’s like he’s seeing _into_ Kent -- like there’s something behind Kent’s tear-bleary eyes and laughter-stretched mouth, and whatever it is, Alexei’s spied it and is examining it closely. Kent feels weirdly exposed and confused. But, at the same time, he can’t quite feel _bad_. If there’s something interesting peeking out from behind his facade, Kent figures, there are worse people than Alexei to show it to.

He meets Alexei’s gaze and gives him a wink. “Right. Crapping. Let’s do that.”

* * *

“Look at that man. Big man! Oh, with many tattoos. And girlfriend is tiny.”

“Yeah, don’t stare at him. Those tats mean he’s probably Mafia.”

“He is betting a lot.”

“Shh. I said, don’t stare.”

“But look -- she blows on dice. You’re blowing on my dice, Kent Parson? Is good luck, right?”

“Tate, I’m not blowing on your--- oh, shit _._ ”

“Wow! He gets two! Is, what you say, snake’s eyes? Very lucky!”

“ _Please_ stop clapping.”

“Hey, hey, mister! Good job, mister! Get another one next time!”

_“What did you just say, you Russian fuck?”_

“Tate, we’ve got to go. Like, _right_ now.”

* * *

It’s about 10 p.m., and he and Alexei are chilling in one of the lobbies checking their phones, when it hits Kent like a one-two punch: one, he hasn’t had a drop to drink all night, and two, he hasn’t thought about Jack Zimmermann in at least two hours. Maybe three.

Neither of these things make any sense, frankly. Given what he found out earlier this evening -- _if it’s even true_ , his mind fills in -- he should be making himself miserable, obsessing and brooding and drinking himself into a stupor. But he’s not. He hasn’t even considered a drink. He’s needed all his faculties to rein in Alexei, saving him from excess at best and humiliation at worst. Kent ought to be getting babysitting fees for this evening.

Except for Alexei isn’t a baby, and minding him isn’t a chore in the slightest. Kent has laughed tonight more than he remembers laughing in a long time. His stomach is still aching vaguely from the whole crapping incident, and after they narrowly escaped the wrath of the Mafia, Kent had needed a moment to gather himself after a bout of giddy giggles that left him breathless..

He ought to thank Alexei for that, really. He’s a good distraction, and he’s a good guy in general. Kent casts his eyes in his direction, just meaning to glance. But his gaze gets caught somehow, and he’s looking at the curve of Alexei’s shoulders, the long sweep of his limbs. The way his eyes dance as he presses his thumbs to the phone’s screen. He’s not a good-looking guy, in the strictest sense of the word. But there’s something about him that’s enticing. Overwhelming and inviting, like a blue ocean.

Alexei feels his gaze and looks up. “I’m Instagram posting now,” he says. “Picture from earlier. Not mentioning you. Is safe?”

There’s a light in his eyes. Half mischief, half a sort of plea for attention. Kent’s heart skips, and he gets a sudden idea.

“Hey,” he says, “why don’t we get a room here?”

Alexei just blinks.

“You know,” Kent goes on. “Get a swanky hotel room with a jacuzzi. Have some liquor from the  mini bar, watch TV, order room service. Hang out.”

A beat of silence, and then Alexei’s eyes go very dark. “You want to go to hotel room,” he says slowly.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake. Just to _hang_ ,” Kent retorts. But if that plan were to change… well, it’s been a while, and Alexei’s big and solid, and something about his wide mouth is surprisingly sinful, and …

He shakes himself. The image doesn’t fade, but the eagerness does, and Kent gets a handle on himself. He rises from his seat. “I’ll get us a room. Hang tight.”

It’s not a difficult task to flash a smile at the concierge, put down a grand or so, and get a suite for the evening. Kent returns to where they were sitting, dangling the keycard between his fingers. Alexei’s eyes light up. As he jumps to his feet, Kent grins at him, a little stupidly, not understanding but thoroughly enjoying the giddiness in his heart.

The elevator is packed for the first seven floors, but as it ascends past the levels of the casino, the guests start to trickle out. The whole time, Alexei has been beaming down at him. Kent’s ignoring it, eyes fixed on the carpet. But as the last guest leaves the elevator and the doors close, Alexei breaks the silence with a little, purposeful cough, and Kent can’t help but turn.

Oh, well. Might as well give him an opening. “Yeah?”

“Nothing.” The light’s dim, but even so Alexei looks a little flushed. “Is just. Tonight is a good time.”

“Yeah,” Kent ribs, “it’s been a good date.”

As soon as he says it, he regrets it. Alexei’s flush deepens, and he chews on his lip. _Fuck_. Kent shouldn’t have said that. He shouldn’t encourage whatever Alexei’s thinking now. But…. damn, it’s exciting to know he’s induced this demure hesitation in such an otherwise gung-ho guy. At least he can enjoy that satisfaction, right?

Then again, Alexei would probably be pumped as fuck to know that there’s an oversized butterfly trying to flap its noisy way out of Kent’s chest right now. Where the hell did that thing come from?

“Different from first date,” Alexei says.

“Nah, not so different. We were running around like crazy people then, too.” Kent punches Alexei’s arm, just playfully, trying to lighten the mood.

It doesn’t work. “End of first date,” Alexei says, his voice going soft, “you said you let me kiss you.”

The butterfly abruptly turns into a jackhammer. At once Kent’s acutely aware of the emptiness of the elevator, the quiet music in the background. The slow ascent that’s taking them, above the heads of millions, to a small private island in the sky.

“Yeah,” he says. “yeah, I remember.”

Alexei reaches out. His fingers make contact with Kent’s shoulder, then the skin of his neck. Kent’s eyes flutter closed, just for an instant, and in that instant the whole world is the touch of Alexei’s hand. Just warmth, and contact. Not even pressure. Only touch.

“What about today?” Alexei half-whispers. His words are as careful and deliberate as his touch. “Would you let me kiss you today, Kent Parson?”

Kent’s mouth is dry. He licks his lips and swallows. “Yeah,” he says hoarsely, “yeah, I think I would.”

Alexei’s hand shifts, and his fingers are unbearably gentle as they cup Kent’s jaw. Kent shudders, the feeling rippling down his spine. He looks up. Their eyes catch. Alexei closes the gap between them.

His mouth is big and warm, and Kent’s enveloped by the sensation, folded into the moment the way a flower folds into itself at nightfall. He’s warm, protected, sheltered. Just Alexei’s kiss does all of this, and when Alexei’s arms go around him, the feeling multiplies a hundredfold. Kent presses forward, demanding more, and Alexei gives, his lips parting, his hands cinching at Kent’s lower back.

Someone in the security booth downstairs is getting an eyeful, Kent thinks as the kiss goes on. Two big guys kissing in an elevator. He couldn’t care less. He’s never felt safer.

When Alexei pulls back, he’s frowning. Kent blinks at him. “What?”

“You’re not thinking about…. You’re thinking about someone else,” Alexei says reproachfully. His hand falters on Kent’s waist.

Kent lifts his own hand to steady it. He stares Alexei down. “No,” he says, “no, I’m _not_. And I don’t want to, either. Not tonight.”

Alexei lets out a soft breath. “Okay,” he says. “Okay. I’m believe you.”

Kent presses closer to him. “It’s just you and me in here, Tate,” he says. “Just you and me.” And he leans up to press his mouth to Alexei’s again.

This time, it takes the ding of the elevator bell to separate them. Kent steps back and clears his throat. The feel of Alexei’s lips remains, a gentle impression. He feels both unmoored -- even floaty -- and utterly safe. It’s a combination Kent’s not sure he’s ever felt before. He reaches out and slips his hand into Alexei’s, easy and right as anything.

Something’s different. It’s been different all night. And it takes him a minute, but he realizes what it is.

Right now, with Alexei, he’s not thinking beyond the moment. He’s not making plans and anticipating possible futures. All the tales he tells himself about what’s happening and what’s still to happen, and what it all means, have fallen silent. He just _is_ , here and now and with this man, and that’s it. It’s like he’s stepped into an untouched world. He wants to hold onto it, for as long as he can.

He enjoys the feeling of their hands tangled together, the touch of their fingers, as they meander down the hallway to the suite.

* * *

Alexei’s hand drops out of his at the door, and when Kent slides in the keycard and opens it, Alexei muscles past him to be first into the room. His sudden “Ah!” is loud enough to echo in the hallway behind them. Kent hurries to close the door before they get a noise complaint right off the bat.

But it’s easy to see why Alexei’s so impressed. The suite is generous, with a sprawling bedroom looking out over the glittering Strip. Couches on one side of the room are arranged in a comfortable sitting area, and the bathroom -- enclosed not by a wall but by frosted glass - is wide and features a huge jacuzzi tub -- more of a hot tub than a bath. It’s the sort of place you could live in for a week, and Kent’s abruptly sorry he only has one night. Not even that, as Alexei’s bound to retreat to his actual hotel eventually. Kent’s heart twinges at the thought -- of luxury cut short and money wasted, of course. Not the realization that this night will eventually end. He’s not that sentimental.

He crosses the room to look out the window, only turning back when he hears a curious rustle behind him. He immediately turns back to the window again. But no, it’s too late -- now all he can see is the reflection of a nearly naked Alexei Mashkov grinning at him. “What the hell are you doing?” Kent says, shutting his eyes.

“Aw, little mouse is shy,” Alexei says. Kent can _hear_ his grin. “Is okay, we both in locker rooms all times.”

Which, okay, true. Kent opens his eyes, but he still can’t quite look at Alexei. “Why the fuck are you getting naked? You think just cause I let you kiss me--”

“No, no, no, no!” Alexei answers in a mild panic. “Bath! Is time to go in bath.”

“Bath?” Kent makes a face. “You mean that giant freaking hot tub?”

“Hot tub, yes! You don’t want to? You drink from bar but I’m going in bath.” And, well, fuck, why shouldn’t he? It’s pretty damn appealing. Kent actually wouldn’t mind a dip himself, if he had a swimsuit around -- of course, lack of a swimsuit doesn’t seem to be bothering Alexei. He _is_ right about the two of them being accustomed enough to male nakedness. Maybe Kent should consider joining him.

By now, Alexei has disappears into the bathroom. Kent can see him, a giant, vaguely pink shape through the frosted glass, like an elongated jelly bean.  A humming jelly bean. As the faucet starts hissing and the water fills the tub, Alexei’s humming just increases in volume, like he’s enjoying the echo of his voice off the glass. Kent smirks. What a giant goofball.

A goofball whose arms were warm around him, whose kiss felt like an anchor, grounding him and keeping him tethered to the moment. Kent doesn’t remember the last time he’s felt that way. Lust, yeah -- he’s had his share of one-nighters and even some brief affairs -- but never this, never the feeling that he’d _found_ something. Being close to Alexei, he has this weird sense of discovery, and at the same time, a feeling like coming back to a familiar place.

It completely weirds him out.

The tub’s hissing stops. The buzz of the jets replaces it. Alexei’s humming gets even louder.

It’s weirdly appealing. And Alexei’s put something in the bath that’s making it smell kind of good. The aroma is wafting out from the bathroom into the sitting area, and Kent sniffs it, intrigued. He can’t name the scent, but he likes it.

Oh, what the hell.

He enters the bathroom. “Got room for me?” he asks. It’s a silly question. The hot tub is big enough for at least three.

Alexei beams. “Of course.”

“Cool.” Kent shrugs off his shirt and steps out of his jeans. When he lets his boxers drop, he half-expects a leering whistle from the vicinity of the bathtub, but Alexei’s looking elsewhere. Offering him some modesty, maybe? Whatever. Kent stretches, sniffs himself -- Jesus, he could _use_ a bath -- and swings one leg, then another, over the rim of the tub. As he sinks down next to Alexei, he groans at the muscle-melting magic of the hot water. “Jesus,” he murmurs, “that’s good.”

“See? Good idea.” Alexei grins.

“Yeah, yeah.” But Kent shoots him a smile back.

Alexei resumes his humming. He doesn’t seem to have a good sense of volume. Kent tilts his head. “What the hell are you singing, Tate?”

“Old Russian bathing song.”

“It is _not_.” Kent laughs.

“Is. Old men sing in bathhouse. You listen.” Alexei slings an arm around Kent’s shoulder, a light touch. He sways and sings a verse of something in Russian. His voice isn’t bad. It’s a terribly catchy tune. Kent can already tell it’s gonna go through his head all day tomorrow.

Clumsily, he tries to hum along, approximating the melody. Alexei’s grin expands. He goes through one more verse, and Kent joins in at the refrain. Their voices rise and blend in an off-key cacophony against the glass walls of the bathroom.

They both laugh loudly at the conclusion. Alexei claps. Kent returns the applause. “Not bad, man. Not bad.”

“You sure you are not drinking tonight?” Alexei says. His voice is low and rich with amusement.

“The hell does that mean?” Kent slumps close to the water.

“Means --” Alexei places  a hand on his head, presses down enough that Kent ends up blowing bubbles as he laughs. “You still having good time.”

“And what, I have to be drunk to have a good time?”

“Not saying that. Just saying--”

“No, no, shut up.” Kent sits up, crossing his arms over his chest. One of the tub’s jets flows a hot wave of water against his lower back. “Shut up a second. We’ve been fucking around Vegas all night. We’re in a first-class hotel suite in a goddamn Jacuzzi, and somehow that’s not enough for me to have a good time?”

“Good time, yes,” Alexei says. “Singing in bath good time, maybe not.”

“Look, it’s not like I was singing _alone_.” Kent shoves him. Alexei’s chest against his flat palms is broad and firm, and gone far too soon. “You were the one doing a fucking opera in here, and you didn’t drink that much either.”

Alexei lifts a hand from the water, places it against Kent’s forearm. “I am enjoying company,” he says. His thumb strokes a soft, curved line against Kent’s skin.

Kent feels a little weak all of a sudden. A little wobbly. “Yeah, well…” His gaze drops, and he takes in the length of Alexei’s body, stretched out under the bubbling water. “Maybe I am, too.”

That soft, water-worn hand moves. Up over Kent’s shoulder, rounding the curve of his muscle. To his neck. Under his jaw. Tilting his chin up.

The first kiss was warm, like a blanket. This one sears Kent like an open flame. He groans, opens his mouth to Alexei’s, gasps when Alexei’s tongue touches his. He leans forward, pressing his palms against Alexei’s chest, feeling all that firm warm skin. God, Alexei is solid. Solid and hard in all the right places and soft where he needs to be. Kent takes the time to wander, explore. His arms, the wiry lift of his shoulders, the nape of his neck. When Kent’s fingers brush against Alexei’s hairline, Alexei shudders, and it feels like an earthquake.

Kent rolls against him, lets their bodies press. Alexei makes a low sound and wraps his long arms around Kent’s frame. The water is hot and Alexei’s kiss is hot and his embrace is hot, and Kent’s going to go up in a puff of smoke, either that or melt down like gold in a furnace. “Tate,” he murmurs, “I’m thinking bathtime’s almost over.”

Alexei hums against his mouth. “Yes,” he says, “yes, you are right.”

* * *

“So then Benjy says to me, you know it’s because Buxxy and Fitz are screwing, right? And I stop and look at him like he has five fucking heads.”

It’s much later, and Kent Parson is on his back, naked. A towel is draped over his dangly bits. He’s staring up at the ceiling of this absurdly luxe hotel room and laughing his fool head off. It feels fucking _divine._

“So I say to him, you’re shitting me, right? They’re not seriously screwing? And Benjy just bursts out laughing and says, God, no, but I wish they would. And I’m just like, holy _fuck_ , me, too. It explains so fucking much about them.”

Alexei, sitting up against the head of the bed, chortles. “I’m thinking some teammates have same problem,” he says. “Back in Russia, not Falconers. Need to be learning that they’re liking each other. But big heads, no brains.”

“Right?” Kent turns. The towel flops off. He’s now utterly naked. It feels glorious. “Because Fitz is so serious-business, and Buxxy is such a hothead. They get on each other’s cases all the fucking time. I can’t believe I didn’t see it before.”

“I’m thinking NHL would be much smarter, more fucking than fighting,” Alexei observes.

“Holy shit, _yes._ ” Kent cackles himself silly. “They should get two minutes for boning, and get thrown into a penalty box with a bed in it.”

“Hah!” Alexei’s big belly laugh fills Kent’s ears. And, also, somehow, the rest of him.

He wipes tears of mirth from his eyes. “Shit,” he murmurs. “What the hell are we even doing here?”

Alexei casts a warm gaze down at him. He folds his arms behind his head. “Having good time.”

Kent wrinkles his nose. “That’s it, though. Right?” The reverberations of that sonorous laugh are still filling him, and it’s making him nervous. “We’re not, like, _involved_ now. Are we?”

“I don’t know what means ‘involved,’” Alexei says.

“Yeah.” Kent gives a half laugh. He scrambles up to the head of the bed and leans in Alexei’s direction. “Yeah, me neither.”

Alexei lowers one arm onto Kent’s shoulder and gathers him near. Kent lets him. Somehow being close to Alexei is easier than not being close to him. On the other side of the bed, the doubts were still assailing him -- what are they doing? what does it mean? -- but with Alexei’s arm around him, Kent’s mind quiets. This is nice. This, right here. None of the rest of it seems to matter.

And if any of it does matter, it can sure as hell wait till morning.

* * *

Alexei leaves at midnight, as expected. Kent stays put, sleeping on the big bed naked until the sunshine wakes him. He yawns, stretches, and looks around the room. It’s huge and empty. There’s a pair of towels on the floor, a washcloth dangling over the end of the rumpled bedclothes -- but other than that, no evidence that Kent was anything other than alone here. He might as well have dreamed the whole thing.

And it feels like a dream -- a bizarre alternate universe he dipped into for one night, only to wake back up to the light of reality. That’s right, he thinks. None of that matters. Not the fun, not the sex, not the inconvenient feelings that came along with it. They fade. Kent’s story remains on course. And that’s a story without Alexei Mashkov as a main character. It’s Kent and Jack, the quest for recaptured glory. Always has been, and always will be.

Kent takes a long walk, down the Strip and another half-mile to the iceplex. He picks up his car and drives home. There, he busies himself making lunch and watching tape after tape of the Falconers and Jack Zimmermann. That old familiar bitterness fires up again in his gut at the sight of Jack. Kent relaxes into it like an easy chair. Ah, _yes_. There’s that fire in his gut, the sour tang of unfairness and adversity. It gets the motors running under his skin, starts up the machine that narrates his life. _This time, Kent Parson will do what it takes. This time, Jack Zimmermann will be left in his wake… and begging to catch up._

At warmups, he’s efficient and aggressive. He shoots puck after puck past Ozzie’s glove, to the extent that even Swoops whistles appreciatively and gives him an ass-pat of approval. Kent glows. He’s radiating heat now, ablaze with the familiar fire that gets him up in the morning. This is his time and place. His spotlight, his castle. Tonight will be a blowout.

* * *

Kent gets on the ice that night believing that. He watches Swoops face down Zimms at puck drop, waiting, believing. And then the game is on.

Hustle and grease and hard work. Bodies slamming on the ice and against the boards. The Aces rack up a goal in the first. The Falcs, one in the first and one in the second. Zimms is a force to be reckoned with. Kent chases him down time after time, panting. God, Jack is good. So good Kent can taste how amazing they’ll be together, once they’re on the same team again.

They go diving for the puck in the same corner. Kent thrills. This is when Jack feels it, he knows. The proximity, the heat of competition. This is when their hearts start to beat in time. Their scents will mingle in Jack’s nostrils, triggering memories of what used to be, what could be again. Any minute now.

Kent scrapes the puck away from the boards and feels blue eyes follow him. _Yes._

He’s racing down the ice. Ahead, Swoops and Benjy -- backing him up, Buxxy and Fitz -- Ozzie way behind in the net. They’re an invincible pyramid. The Falcs are streaks of blue around them, hurrying to catch up. Kent swerves away, finds a lane, wheels. Finds a shot. Pulls his stick back.

The instant he makes contact with the puck, a shadow falls over him. Kent squints, skids, and is shoved to the side as the puck goes skitting along wide of the net. He’s slammed heavily against the boards, body pinned. Not even a question who it is. He’s been pinned by this body before. He knows it from his waking dream.

“Fuck, Tate,” he mutters.

And it’s in his own voice that he hears the echo of last night, his own words that betray him.

Shaken, he pushes off. Puts some distance between them. It’s only distance he needs, and perspective, to get things back to where they should be. It takes him a half-second to find the puck, following the sound of clacking sticks. It’s off the stick of St. Martin, who’s carving a lane back through center ice. Kent revs up after him, feeling Alexei -- _God, no, Mashkov, on the ice he’s Mashkov --_ at his back. St. Martin passes to Robinson, who fakes, sends it around. Jack is there. Kent sees the puck connect, sees it plow through the air toward the net. Ozzie dives. Kent speeds up. He’s a fraction of a second too late.

3-1, Falcs.

They rally in the third period, but in the end, the Falcs net the win, 4-3. Kent’s heart is racing as he returns to the locker room, then faces the press. He stutters some bullshit about speed and getting in front of the puck, but truth is, he doesn’t know why they lost. A loss to the Falcs was never in the script. And he doesn’t know where the story goes from here. Without the win -- without the glory --  what does he have to offer Zimms?

What’s worse, he realizes as he heads back to the car to drive home for the night, he’s having trouble seeing beyond that point. Even with the win, what happens? Zimms is impressed, he agrees to a trade, they’re back on the same ice next season -- and then what?

Alexei’s words keep rolling around his head. _Is always looking at phone and smiling._ Who even is that? Is _that_ the guy Kent’s been missing all these years? Some dimwit who grins at his phone? Jack was good tonight, but he never looked Kent in the eyes, never even seemed to recognize him. Like he was a completely different person.

As his tires eat up the dark Nevada highway, Kent feels his stomach swimming. He can’t see the horizon in the new-moon darkness, and, for the first time, he can’t see the end of the story, either.

What is he, if his story disappears?

  
  



	3. Here and There

Kent has some weird-ass dreams that night. He’s alone in his house (mansion, it’s a fucking mansion) and everything’s dark. Has he woken up in the middle of the night? Or is he dreaming? He’s not sure. But there’s a sound. The howling of an animal, echoing in through the windows. Or from inside? Is it inside?

He walks through his bedroom doorway and down the hall toward the staircase. Yes, it’s definitely coming from downstairs -- the kitchen. As he approaches, it becomes clear that it’s not an animal he’s hearing. It sounds like one, but it’s a baby. There’s a baby in his kitchen. Sitting in the sink. Kent picks it up. It howls like a coyote, but somehow that’s normal for babies.

Kent looks for the mother. The mother’s left it for him to feed. He wants to tell her that he doesn’t know how to feed babies, but she’s left. And he’s alone and there’s a baby in his arms. He puts it in a drawer to block out the sound of its howling. The drawer closes, and it’s quiet. Kent creeps out of the kitchen, but just as he’s free of the doorway, the drawer springs open, and the baby’s cry rings out, and Kent awakens with a start.

Thank God, it was a dream.

He wanders downstairs. The nice thing about a big house is there’s always somewhere to go.

It would be nice to have someone else here, just to ease the emptiness. Not for sex, just for… not being alone.

What is he thinking? He snorts and heads into the kitchen. No howling babies or crying coyotes are waiting there. He opens the refrigerator. Raw veggies peer at him. Fuck his personal chef. Sometimes you just wanna eat frozen pizza.

He sits on the kitchen island, chewing on a stalk of celery and frowning at the darkness. What the hell was that dream about? Kent doesn’t do babies, except for photo-ops. And he’s never heard one make a noise like that.

_Baby means new thing_ , he hears in a familiar voice. _Something new in you, but why crying so hard? Why you scared of new thing, Kent Parson?_

Bullshit. Kent’s not scared of anything, and even if he were, it wouldn’t be a baby. The dream meant nothing. Except that he’s gonna be tired as hell tomorrow at practice. He swallows the celery and returns to bed. Thankfully, no more dreams await him.

* * *

What little sleep he gets doesn’t help much on the ice in the morning. Kent feels like he’s in a dream world. The skating feels dull somehow, like he’s a robot. Just going through the motions.

A Falcs versus Aces game won’t happen again in the regular season. If they meet again, it’ll be in the Stanley Cup Finals. That’s a long way to wait for a payoff -- things were never meant to string along this long. But then again, Jack was never supposed to look at him with those blank eyes. Jack was never supposed to tell him to leave at that kegster. Jack was never supposed to do a lot of things that he ended up doing.

And when Kent closes his eyes, it’s not Jack’s touch he’s feeling.

He shakes it away. But when he does, things go cold. The strings that hold him up have gone slack, and he has to work harder to hold his head high, to maintain his posture and his focus. It rarely feels like such hard work.

Coaches are trying to shake up his line. They put Coco in center instead of Swoops. It feels wrong. Kent’s on edge as they run through the drills. He doesn’t like this, he doesn’t like Coco’s grit. Doesn’t feel the same as Swoops’ weighted elegance. Why are the coaches fucking with him now? This is the wrong time, and he’s in the wrong mood. Can’t they just keep him comfortable on his usual line?

_Your hole so comfortable. So why leave?_

Fuck. Is that what Alexei meant? Why’s he so edgy about getting out of his comfort zone a little? Why’s he so damn bad with the unexpected?

Kent pulls up against the side of the rink, leans on the edge. He’s trembling, and he doesn’t know why. It’s embarrassing. The harder he wills himself to stop, the worse it gets. He stares at his gloves, watching the fabric quiver.

“Parse. Parser. You okay?” Benjy’s on his left, pulling to a stop. “You’re shaking like a leaf, man.”

“Fuck.” Kent was hoping no one would notice. “Yeah, man, I’m fine. Just need some water.”

He sits at the bench, catching his breath. He can’t let the team see him this shaken up. Abruptly, he gets up and retreats into the locker room. He’ll just check his phone, Instagram or Twitter, remind himself how many people are believing in him and counting on him. That’ll get him back up to snuff. It’s usually enough to boost him when he’s less than 100 percent.

He has a private message waiting for him on his Instagram. Kent clicks.

**a91mashkov:** _hello! If you are wanting, my skype is a91mash7. Have a good day!_

And fuck if that isn’t enough to make him smile.

* * *

He checks the Falcs’ schedule. Travel day for them, no game ‘til tomorrow. So he Skypes Alexei in the evening, when it’s just before dinnertime Kent’s time and probably closer to bedtime in Providence. He calls and Alexei picks up with an enthusiastic . “Kent Parson! I think maybe you’re not calling me.”

“Why? I was glad to hear from you, man.” And he was. He was so fucking glad. All day he’s been feeling like -- well, like he’s just been waiting for this, and it’s bizarre. He’s never had this problem with any of his previous lays. He’s stayed friends with guys he’s slept with -- it’s just sex, and some of them have been decent enough guys to keep around. But he’s never been _excited_ to talk to someone before. It’s never made him want to grin, just seeing their stupid face again. Fuck this.

“I told you we’re winning,” Alexei says.

“Really? That’s the first thing you’re gonna say to me?”

“Could say something else.” His tone is wry.

“Nah, nah, you’re right, stick with chirping me about the game. How was your flight back?”

They settle into easy conversation. Alexei is, as Kent suspected, about to head to bed -- “late night last time around,” he says, eyes flashing, and Kent grins. Just talking to him like this, he feels a little bit like he’s been pulled back into that dream world. It’s a relief. He’s been living in real life all day long, and he could use a little time in this alternate universe. Where everything’s easy and there’s no history, no destiny. Just life, just living.

“You look funny, Kent Parson,” Alexei tells him at one point. “You feel all right?”

Kent shakes his head. “I dunno,” he admits, “I’ve been weird all day. Hung over from the game and all that shit, I guess. I’ll be fine.”

Alexei frowns. “I’m here,” he says slowly, “if you’re needing talk to someone.”

Kent’s first reaction is to bristle. “I don’t need to--”  But he can’t manage to get pissed off about it. Alexei doesn’t mean anything by it, that much Kent knows about him already. He’s honestly offering. Even if there’s no way Kent could ever tell Alexei what’s bothering him. “Yeah, thanks, man,” he says. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

For whatever reason, that night, Kent doesn’t dream.

* * *

They start texting each other, and Skype again the next gameless night they have in common. Alexei greets him warmly, and they shoot the shit about their respective teams. He learns a bit about Alexei, too -- how he comes from a huge family in Russia, how he learned to skate in frigid winters on frozen ponds, how he likes to go boating in the summer. It’s a nice way to end his day, just chatting about life and hockey with a good guy.

The Aces take a short trip down to Arizona and west to California around the holidays, and it’s nearly New Year’s before Kent’s back at home. He hosts a New Year’s party for the team, like he does every year. It’s a big fucking blowout with an open bar and music pumping throughout the house. Benjy shows up with a reindeer nose. He tries to put one on Kent’s nose; Kent dodges with a sour look.

The party’s swinging, and the clock in the downstairs hallway has just clicked over to 9 p.m., when Kent’s phone buzzes in his pocket. Who the hell is texting him, when everyone he knows is here? He picks it up.

**Tate:** _happy new year in Providence!_

Kent’s heart hums loudly as it ascends into his throat. He thumbs clumsily at his phone.

**me:** _Happy New Year, man. Still 9 pm here._

He slips the phone back into his pocket, biting down a grin. God, he should _not_ be this excited. Still, he feels a little giddy and lightheaded as he steps forward into the living room. “Hey--” he starts to call to Swoops and the gang, but then his phone buzzes again.

**Tate:** _We’re Skyping now?_

Kent beats a retreat. He sprints up his steps two at a time. When he arrives in his bedroom, he’s shaking as he pulls out his laptop. Fuck, what’s wrong with him? Did he have some bad liquor?

“He’s a friend. Tate’s a friend. No big deal,” he mutters as he opens Skype and clicks on Alexei’s number.

“ _Kent Parson!_ ”

Holy fuck. Alexei’s eyes are big and his grin is bigger. He might be sloshed. It’s hard to tell.

There’s noise in the background. Or is that the noise from downstairs? Kent’s not sure. “Hey, dude. Happy New Year. Where are you?”

“Upstairs,” Alexei says. “Party downstairs.”

Kent grins. “No, shit. Me, too.”

“Party at Kent Parson’s house? Sounds fun.” Alexei grins sloppily. “I wish I’m going there.”

“I wish you were here too,” Kent says. Then he realizes how dumb that sounds. “I mean, you know. The more the merrier and shit.”

“I’m not understand, but is okay. Is party fun?”

Kent hears raucous laughter from downstairs. “Yeah. My guys know how to have a good time.”

“They’re learning from their captain.” Alexei’s nodding sagely as he says it.

Kent ponders the truth of this statement. If nothing else, he _does_ know how to party.

He leans back on the bed and folds his arms behind his head. “So you remember I was telling you about Buxxy and Fitz, right?” he says. Alexei nods. “So there’s actually a pool going on tonight to see whether they’re gonna kiss at midnight. I say no fucking way…”

They talk for three-quarters of an hour, and when Kent finally wanders downstairs, he’s feeling ten times better and absolutely 500 percent too sober. He drinks himself into a comfortable buzz and rejoins the party for the next two hours, feeling like he’s been released from a prison. Swoops corrals him into karaoke. Kent’s usual go-to is Love Stinks, but he doesn’t feel like it tonight. Instead, he goes for Holding Out for a Hero. Can’t go wrong with some ‘80s classics, right?

At midnight, while everyone else is covertly watching Buxxy and Fitz from behind their glasses, Kent keeps his eyes fixed on the dropping ball on the TV screen. He doesn’t really care about kisses at midnight. It’s been years since he’s had one himself. (Benjy planting one on him for fun doesn’t count.)

He wonders -- if Alexei were here, would that change?

It’s not until New Year’s Day that he realizes he probably should have been thinking about Zimms instead.

* * *

Immediately after the New Year, the Aces go on an extended roadie in Western Canada. It’s a pain in the butt, with long flights between locales and longer hours at each venue, but Kent’s feeling energized. They sweep the trip.

Benjy remarks that he seems more relaxed lately. Kent shrugs. He does kind of feel like he’s gained a release valve he never had before. These days, when he gets tightly wound or anxious about something, it helps to just rifle off a quick text to Alexei. They’re both busy guys, but Alexei always gets back to him sooner or later with a note of sympathy, or a nugget of oddly phrased wisdom. Or even a non-sequitur. So long as it comes from Alexei, it’s a joy to receive.

**Tate:** _you remembering to hydrate today?  
_ **me:** _yeah, are you? And vodka doesn’t count._

When one of them has a night off, they talk after the other’s game. It’s usually after midnight on the East Coast, but Alexei doesn’t seem to mind. He answers the phone with his big, booming “Kent Parson!” and Kent is disarmed, every damn time.

So despite Buxxy and Fitz having found brand new ways to be insufferable, it’s a good roadie. Kent returns home glad to be among his creature comforts. The morning after he wakes up in his own bed for the first time in a week, he fixes himself a cup of coffee and heads out onto his deck to gaze out into the green-brown of his winter yard and the trees at the property line. There’s patches of frost on the ground, but no snow yet this winter.

Still, it’s cold -- a chilly 30-something, because even southern Nevada isn’t southern California -- and Kent huddles into his sweater, sipping his coffee. Maybe he should have brought out a blanket.

Body heat would be nice, too. Alexei’s arms around him. That would be great.

It’s not even surprising anymore, that he misses Alexei’s touch. After all, he’s an attractive guy -- or Kent finds him attractive, at least -- and they’re good friends now. But it’s not a big deal. It’s nothing like Kent felt for Jack, back in the day -- all that crazy lust and possession, the desire to be the only thing Jack sees, the only thing he cares for. This is different. He lets himself want Alexei, just for the sake of wanting him, without it becoming a need that consumes him. Whether or not they hook up again, they’re friends. That’s a sure thing, and Kent can hold onto it. He doesn’t need sex, or love, or possession. He just needs Alexei in his life, in any way Alexei cares to be there.

And if Kent doesn’t think that much about Jack lately, it’s just because the story’s on hold. It’s helpful to let it sit on the back burner, just for a little while, while the Falcs and the Aces rack up wins and ratchet up toward that final confrontation. They’ll get there. But Kent hasn’t let it go. He’ll never let it go.

* * *

He never means to tell Alexei anything.

It’s never come up. Alexei asked, once -- back in Providence -- and in Vegas he made a vague noise like he might have a guess, but since then they haven’t talked about Jack at all. Kent likes it that way. It helps him separate out the two worlds, the two Kents that have been walking around in one body these days. There’s the guy who’s focused on the Cup, and on the secret, personal victory beyond that. And then there’s the guy who’s relaxed and chatty and is starting to even be comfortable in his own skin. Kent doesn’t think they can coexist. He doesn’t expect they’ll have to.

And then Alexei says, during a lengthy, chatty  Skype session on a Sunday afternoon, “Oh! Yesterday I am saying in locker room that I talked to you.”

“Name-dropping me?” Kent says with a laugh. “I didn’t think you were such an attention whore.”

“Am not doing it for attention.” Alexei frowns. “I’m just slipping. Team is surprised. Zimmboni most surprised of all.”

Oh, _fuck._ Kent’s heart does a little, startled somersault, but he doesn’t lose it. Not yet. “Yeah? What’d he have to say?”

“He’s asking how you’re doing.”

Kent stares at the screen and blinks. “And?”

“And, I tell him you’re doing fine and he says good to hear it. It’s good news, yes?”

Disappointment sours Kent’s stomach. “How is that good news?”

“Well, you’re wanting to be friends with him again, yes?”

No. No, that’s not what Kent wants at all. Fuck, he wasn’t expecting this. He wasn’t prepared to hear Jack’s name today. It’s throwing him for a loop, and he feels backwards, upside-down. “Yeah,” he says, barely able to make it more than a breath. “Friends, yeah.”

Alexei peers at him from inside the computer screen. “Kent Parson, you’re not looking so good.”

“I’m fine,” Kent snaps. “I’m fine, just give me a sec.”

Okay. Okay, he can handle this. He’s never quite prepared for the embers of bitterness on the floor of his heart to flare up again, but now that they have, he’s able to process. This is a good sign. Zimms is warming. He asked how Kent was doing. That’s progress. Maybe he’s been wondering, and after this, he’ll reach out. Maybe this is the first tiny step toward renewing their relationship. Maybe, by playoff time, they’ll be on speaking terms again.

Kent gathers himself. “Does he ever, you know, talk about me?” he asks gingerly. “You know, about the games we’ve had so far, or about when we were back in the Q?”

Alexei’s gaze is just shy of reproachful. “Zimmboni is talking about games after we play them,” he says. “And when he’s talking about friends, is usually from university. Not talking about anything before then.”

“...Oh.” It’s like getting the wind knocked out of him. Not that Zimms isn’t talking about him, but that there are others he _does_ talk about. Jack was never supposed to go get other friends. A skinny vein of jealousy pulses somewhere in Kent’s throat.

“You’re worry a lot about Zimmboni,” Alexei says. There’s a low, dark edge to his voice. “I’m not ask what happened, but are you okay?”

“Hey, now.” Kent tries to muster some cheer. “I told you I’d spill everything once we win the Cup.” He’s trying to distract Alexei, pull out some of that competitive playfulness, but Alexei only hums a short note and frowns silently. The quiet presses on Kent’s patience. He swallows, mouth dry. “Look, it wasn’t supposed to happen this way,” he says, finally.

“What supposed to happen?” Alexei’s voice is just barely there.

“This. This whole fucking thing.” Something in Kent snaps. He clenches a fist, scowling, hunching over his laptop. “He was supposed to finish his stupid college bullshit and come to the Aces and we were supposed to play together. Like it was before. He was never supposed to go-- _fuck._ ” He takes in a shuddering breath. “Look, I fucked it up, and I keep trying to fix it, but it keeps going wrong and I’m just so fucking _sick_ of--”

“Kent Parson.” God, he can’t fucking stand it when Alexei uses that voice, so _patient_ and quiet. “What you mean, he supposed to go? How is that your fault he comes to Falconers? I’m not understanding.”

Kent runs a clammy hand through his hair. “Look. Shit happened the last time we talked, okay?” he says, even though he really shouldn’t. “I went out to see him while he was still deciding where to sign, and I tried to get him -- but he was just such a fucking _asshole_ about it-- and it just--”

“He is saying something to upset you?” Alexei prods.

Kent was going to say _it pissed me off_ , but Alexei’s characterization is probably more accurate. “Yeah. And I was an asshole back, because fair’s fair, but I blew it. I fucking blew my chance and now I’m just trying to get him to remember what we used to be like and he won’t even fucking _talk_ to me and--” Something’s stinging in his eyes. Can’t be tears. “Fuck.”

“How long ago you talk last?”

Kent shrugs. “A year. It’s been a year and change, I guess.”

“And you’re still missing him.” Alexei hums thoughtfully. “You tell anyone about this?”

“Who the hell would I tell? It’s between Zimms and me.” It’s never occurred to Kent to tell anyone. It’s his mess, it’s for him to clean up. He’s clearly just having a weak moment to even share it with Alexei.

“You should be telling someone.”

“I’m telling _you_.”

“Not me. I’m friend, but can’t help. Someone who can help.”

Kent frowns. “Like the managers? I’m pretty sure they’re not gonna go for Zimms unless Zimms shows an interest.”

Alexei shakes his head. “No, little mouse,” he says with a touch of sadness. “Someone who can help _you._ ”

It takes Kent a minute. “Well, who could help me-- shit, Tate, are you talking about a therapist? Are you trying to tell me I need therapy?”

“Don’t know if need, not need. But maybe it help.”

Kent goes rigid. “I don’t need a fucking therapist. I’m not some kind of psycho loser. I’m trying to fix this.”

“Fixing, means Zimmboni not playing for Aces? Zimmboni not wanting to talk to you?”

“Yeah. It’s my problem, I’m fixing it.”

Alexei sighs. “Maybe it’s not what need fixing.”

* * *

It gets to Kent more than he cares to admit. When he hangs up with Alexei, he’s feeling a little pissed off -- rattled, with the vague sense Alexei was thinking badly of him, which is humiliating to ponder. But the more he thinks of it, the more he’s wondering if Alexei has a point. Not about the therapy, per se, but about the fact that Kent’s been carrying the burden of this story on his own shoulders for years. Maybe it’s about time he got someone to help him with it.

Which is how he finds himself, on a chilly February morning, heading into a building in a nondescript office park off the highway. The name typed into his phone is Eleanor Bates, and Kent chose her based on her website. The other counselors he researched talked about personal growth and stress reduction, but Eleanor talked about achieving your goals and getting what _you_ want out of therapy. And if Kent’s gonna do this, he’s gonna goddamn well get what _he_ wants out of it.

Eleanor meets him at the door, shakes his hand and invites him in through the lobby and into her office. She’s about the least threatening thing he’s ever seen, a middle-aged lady with mousy hair and round glasses, but he still has to ask as he sits down in an ugly armchair, “Do you know who I am?”

She shakes her head.

“Really?” Kent presses.

“I promise.” She lifts her palms. “And even if I did, that would mean nothing. This is a confidential session.”

“Okay,” Kent says, “because if anyone ever offers you money to spill the beans on me, just remember that I’m richer than they are and I can give you more money to keep quiet.”

She smiles. There’s something wry and sharp-edged about her smile, and Kent likes it. “I guarantee that won’t be a problem.”

“Just as long as we’re clear.” Kent sits back and surveys her office. A bookshelf totes any number of psychology books, from dry tomes to pop paperbacks. A long couch sits along one wall; Kent eschewed that for the chair, for fear she might make him lie down, like a psychiatric patient in a newspaper cartoon. On a nearby table, trinkets of vaguely foreign appearance sit -- a small stone statue vaguely man-shaped, a few smooth pebbles, and a miniature Zen rock garden, complete with rake. Kent leans over and shovels it experimentally through the shallow bed of sand. “I’m not sure where to start,” he says.

But once he does start, it’s remarkably easy to say everything. Kent goes through it all. The past -- the Q, those thirty-odd days when it was just him and Jack and everything was perfect. Then Jack’s fall from grace, and his inexplicable refusal to let Kent back in. The years they spent apart. Kent’s attempts to reconcile with them. Finally, he gets to this year, with Jack in the NHL and Kent trying to get him to realize what he’s missing.

“It’s quite the story,” she says. “It sounds, though, like it hasn’t gone quite the way you expected it to.”

“That’s why I’m here,” Kent says. “A friend of mine said I should talk to someone about it.” He doesn’t give her all the context of that particular comment. “I figured, you might be able to help me not fuck it up this time.”

“Fuck what up, exactly?” she says, repeating the expletive in the most mild of tones.

“Fixing this thing with Jack. Getting him back.”

“Hm,” she says quietly. “And what happens if you don’t?”

“Don’t?” That word makes no fucking sense.

“Don’t get him back.”

The words, soft as they can be, still land in his gut like a block of cement. “You don’t understand,” he says. “This is how things are supposed to be. He’s supposed to be here. I fucked up and lost him, and now I have to get him back.”

“How long do you have?” Eleanor asks.

“What?”

“How long are you willing to keep trying?” Her voice is mild, bereft of emotion but for a quiet sympathy. “It sounds like it’s been quite a few years, and he hasn’t shown any interest in reconnecting with you. Is there a point at which you’ll say that’s enough, and move on?”

“That’s--” Kent searches for the right words to express the utter absurdity of what she’s just said. It’s like asking him to accept that elves exist, or that the earth is flat. It’s not a logical part of his existence. “Wait a minute. Wait a sec. I read your website. It said you’d help me get what _I_ want out of therapy. I’m telling you what I want, and what I want is Jack. Are you saying you can’t help me get him?”

She pauses, adjusts her glasses, uncrosses and then re-crosses her legs. Good. She’s nervous. She _should_ be, after what she just did to his worldview. “Let’s talk about what that means,” she says carefully. “Getting what you want. Isn’t it difficult, having what you want be dependent on someone else? Someone whose wants and needs you can’t control?”

A dim red flame of rage is starting to burn in Kent’s gut. “It’s not about controlling him. It’s what’s good for him. He and I together -- we were the best. Why wouldn’t he want that back?”

“That,” Eleanor says, “is a question you’d have to ask him.”

Kent clenches a fist. He considers spilling all that Zen sand all over the carpet. “Then what is the point of me even being here?” he seethes.

“And _that_ is something you have to ask yourself,” she replies evenly. “If all you’re interested in is changing another person’s mind, then I can’t help you, and neither can anybody else. But if you’re interested in changing _your own_ mind, I’d like to think I can be of some help.”

* * *

Kent doesn’t call Alexei that night. He receives a few texts, but doesn’t answer them. It’s a rare night off, and he’s puttering around his mansion after the cook has finished the dishes and left for the evening. Eleanor’s words keep ringing around his head like the world’s worst jingle bells, and he gets so lost in them that he just stands and stares at the darkness of his living room for minutes, unmoving.

Changing his own mind. Moving on. It’s -- it’s ludicrous. This isn’t some random crush. This is his soulmate. This is the man he’s hung his dreams on. He couldn’t possibly.

What would that even look like? A life without Jack, without Jack’s existence there as a distant light for him to sail toward. If Jack’s not at the end of the story, why has Kent done everything he’s done? Why has he fought so hard for so long? What’s supposed to be his reward?

He can’t wrap his head around the concept. His ever-after was supposed to be skating alongside Jack. Winning a Cup together. Breaking records, breaking hearts, maybe even coming out as hockey’s power couple. Oh, yeah, Kent’s had that dream too. They’d go down in sports history. Unforgettable, unrivaled, unbroken.

Without Jack, what’s the point of all his success?

And that’s the phrase that sticks in his head as he goes to bed that night, the phrase that keeps him from sleep even with the aid of alcohol. _What’s the point?_

* * *

They lose at home to the Habs, then turn around to beat the snot out of the Senators, before Kent goes to see Eleanor again. His appointment is fairly early in the day, right after practice, and he’s still flying on the wings of a hat trick and a 6-2 win when he arrives. It helps that Alexei’s text of congratulations is still sitting in his pocket, a happy bunch of pixels he couldn’t stop grinning at last night. He hasn’t told Alexei about the therapy yet, but he’ll get around to it. He thinks.

“So last night was a good night,” he tells Eleanor as he sits down.

“That’s good to hear. How so?”

He tells her about the hatty and the crushing victory, and caps the story off with “...and my buddy in Providence actually texts me ‘woo-hoo’. Like, that’s a normal, usual thing that he types. A grown-ass man who’s like eight inches taller than me. He cracks my shit up.”

“I have to say, I’m really pleased to see you had a nice night,” Eleanor says. “Based on our conversation last time, I was worried you might be having a hard time in general, but it sounds like your career and social life are going well.”

“I-- yeah.” And how does he explain how that works? How his life is both full and empty? “Yeah, I mean, I can’t complain, really. I’m playing the game, I got people around me who are good to me--” His thoughts fly to Alexei again. Somehow, Alexei doesn’t fall into that category. He needs more words. He deserves them.

“I have this friend in Providence,” he says, “”the one who sent me the text. He’s-- he’s a really good guy. I think, sometimes, about-- well. At least, he’s a good friend.” He gives a short laugh. “So yeah. I’m pretty lucky. Good friends, good teammates. Can’t complain.”

“And yet you’re still distressed about this one man,” she says. “This man you used to love.”

Kent wants to interrupt her. Wants to say _I still love him._ But the words stick in his throat.

“Why do you suppose you still think about him so much?” she asks. “With everything else that you have in your life, what does he give you that you don’t already have?”

_A purpose. A structure. A reason to keep doing what I’m doing._ “He’s just -- always been there,” Kent says dumbly. “I mean, I don’t really know what it’s like to not think about him. I--”

But he does. He does know. That night in Vegas, he didn’t think about Jack at all.

He shifts on the chair uncomfortably. “He’s -- Jack’s -- he’s the whole point. He’s the reason I do everything I do. I mean, I like the game and everything, but he’s the _reason_.”

“Is that important to you?” she says. “To have a reason?”

Kent squints. “Yeah. I mean, isn’t it for everyone? I mean, what’s the point otherwise?”

Eleanor gives that small, sharp smile again. Kent’s learning to welcome and fear it in equal measure. “For a lot of people, there isn’t a point,” she says. “There’s just life.”

The bottom drops out of Kent’s stomach. “But… how?” he says. “I mean, why would anyone do anything if there’s no fucking point-- like--” He takes in a breath, tries to reorient his world. “Don’t you have a reason you do shit? I mean-- what do you get out of doing this, talking to me-- besides getting paid, I mean, is that all?”

“What do you think I get out of it?” she asks.

Kent’s head swims. “I don’t know -- you want to help people, I guess -- that makes you feel useful or-- or some shit? I don’t know. But I need something else. I need to know what’s going to happen. What I get out of it.”

“Do you do that a lot?” Eleanor asks. “Do you try to anticipate what’s going to happen? Do you do a lot of planning in your head?”

Oh. So much. _So_ much. So much he’s dizzy with it. There are times when his brain won’t stop working, he can’t stop churning out different possibilities and contingencies, planning what he’s going to say, how he’s going to act. Without that -- without all that vigilance -- it’s all just a murky unknown, and if Kent were ever to admit he were afraid of something, that would be it. The black hole of an unplanned, unpromised future.

“Yeah,” he says, “yeah, I do that.”

“It’s a lot of work,” she comments.

“...Yeah.”

“Have you ever tried to stop? For a while? Just take life as it comes?”

“That sounds--” _terrifying._ “I don’t know if I can.”

She turns the page on her legal pad. “Let me ask you this. Is it something you’d be willing to try?”

* * *

Kent’s grateful for the homestand. He’s been able to come home and sleep in his own bed for over a week now. There’s one more game tomorrow night before they take off for an extended East Coast roadie, but it’s nice to have a few more hours in a familiar, easy place.

So why he agreed to do this is beyond him.

But she said, _pick a scenario that feels safe to you. Where you don’t think you’ll be in danger of screwing up._ She said, _when you feel that urge to plan ahead, just stop and take a breath instead. See what happens._

So he’s gonna call his buddy Alexei, and he’s gonna spill the beans about the fact that he’s seeing a shrink now, and he’s _not_ gonna plan it out. It’ll be fine. Alexei’s never been anything but open and welcoming and understanding. If there’s anyone Kent feels like he can screw up in front of, it’s Alexei. Weird, how he feels that way. How he just knows that Alexei will be there for him no matter what happens.

He’s opening up his laptop to call when the thoughts start in. How’s he going to break it? _So about what you told me, about seeing someone?_ Or, _I thought you’d want to know that I took your advice_? Should he frame it in a way that’ll feed Alexei’s ego? Or just come out and say it bluntly? Will Alexei disapprove? What if he says he wasn’t serious? What if he mocks Kent for---

_God, no_ , he chides himself. _Stop it. Breathe._

He follows his own advice. But what if Alexei’s pissed that Kent didn’t tell him sooner? Or--

_Stop it. Just click the damn mouse and call him._

Fuck. He has to do this. He clicks on the green button.

Ring. Ring.

( _Okay, but what if Tate’s in a bad mood tonight? Should I have checked the Falcs score before calling? Shit, what if he’s out with people and can’t talk? What if he had a terrible loss and doesn’t want to hear about my problems? I’d better be prepared to…. No, stop. Breathe._ )

Ring. Rin---

“Kent Parson!”

Relief floods Kent’s senses, as palpable as anything he’s ever felt. Holy shit, that was _scary._ But it’s okay. Alexei’s greeting him with the same huge smile as always. “Hey, Tate.”

“You’re calling late. Is everything okay? Did you see my goal tonight? I’m shooting from blueline, two-on-three, right at end of period. I’m sweating so hard! But I’m seeing the chance.”

“Yeah? I’m gonna have to check the highlights later. Sorry I missed it.” And he is, too -- sorry, and eager to check the highlights. He should have thought to watch the Falcs game. Even seeing Jack on the screen doesn’t hurt that much if he just concentrates on Alexei. Alexei continues to have that weird effect on Kent, where he can forget himself a little bit.

“You’re seeing it soon! Promising now!” Alexei’s grinning so hard, Kent sort of wants to just let him run on at the mouth. It’d take all the pressure off to just listen, let himself get carried away on the animated cadence of Alexei’s accented English.

“I promise.” Kent puts his hand over his heart. “Seriously, that’s fucking great, Tate. Way to go.”

“Thank you. But, ah! You’re not calling to hear about my goal.”

Kent winces. Okay, here goes. He opens his mouth and has no idea what’s about to come out of it. “So yeah, I wanted-- I thought I’d-- I did.” He swallows. “I did what you told me to. I, uh. I found someone to talk to.”

Alexei leans forward. His eyes narrow and his lips purse. “You’re serious?”

“Yeah.” Kent drags his teeth along his lower lip. The sting keeps him in the moment. “Yeah. She’s pretty good, I think. She’s, uh… she’s making me think about some things differently.”

Alexei hums. The soft, low note quavers on the shoddy speakers of Kent’s laptop. “Is good, I think,” he says after a moment’s deliberation. “I think, sometimes everybody need help thinking a little different. I’m being proud of you, little mouse.”

A low current of heat creeps up Kent’s neck. He itches at it absently with one hand. “Thanks. Thanks. I, um -- I told her about you.”

“Oh?” Alexei’s smile is slight and sly.

“Yeah. I mean, not everything, obviously. But that-- that you’re a good friend. That you mean a lot to me.” It should feel awkward to say. He should be embarrassed. He’s a little scared he’s embarrassed Alexei by saying it, but it’s so strange -- the words just came out, and Kent meant them. And he can’t quite bring himself to regret them.

A seed of an idea is beginning to form under his tongue. What would happen, he wonders, if he gave it voice?

Alexei pauses. “I--” he starts. Then he shakes his head. “Thank you, Kent Parson. You are meaning so much to me, too. I’m glad we are friends.”

The soft look in Alexei’s eyes, the muted hush of his voice, makes Kent’s heart hurt. That idea turns over under his tongue, itching.

Oh, what the hell. He’s not supposed to be planning this, anyway.

“I miss you,” he says.

Silence.

He says it again, just to be sure the words really came out. “I miss you, Tate.”

More silence.

Kent gets itchy. “Did you hear me?”

“Yes, yes, sorry. I heard you. A little surprised, but yes. Thank you, Kent Parson.” Is Alexei flushing? There’s a definite tint to his cheeks. Could it be because he’s drinking? Or the light in the room?

If there’s a chance it’s embarrassment, or some other kind of emotion… what does that mean? Kent scrambles to cover up. “Anyway. Um. I’m gonna be on the East Coast for a while. We should maybe see if we can’t meet up, if you have a day off. I’m gonna be in D.C, then Pittsburgh and Philadelphia, then New York…”

“When in New York?” Alexei asks.

“5th and 6th. 6th against the Rangers.”

Alexei’s face lights up. “Maybe we’re there at same time. We’re playing Islanders, I think 6th too. We’re meeting on Saturday, yes?””

“Holy shit,” Kent breathes. “Really?” A few keystrokes and a google of the Falcs’ schedule and he’s confirmed it. Suddenly, inexplicably, he’s ridiculously happy. “Hell, yes,” he tells Alexei with a miles-wide grin. “Hell, yes, we’re meeting on Saturday.”

* * *

Going to bed that night, Kent thinks back on his appointment. He’d mentioned to Eleanor, when they were planning his attempt at seat-of-his-pants living, that he thought Alexei would be a good candidate. _He’s just -- a good guy all around,_ he’d said. _It’s easier to be me when I’m around him, I don’t know. We, uh… we actually hooked up once, and it was… yeah. It was good._

_Oh._ Eleanor had raised her eyebrows. _Do you have romantic feelings for this friend?_

_I don’t know,_ Kent said. _Maybe. I just kind of… like him in general. Don’t know what to call it._

She’d looked at him for a minute. _We’ve been talking about your problems getting over your ex-boyfriend,_ she’d said then. _But I wonder if, just a little bit, you’re starting to do it on your own._

Getting over Jack. Is it even possible? A week ago, Kent would have rejected the idea out of hand. But with the prospect of seeing Alexei again on the horizon, he’s inexplicably giddy and nervous. Is it possible for the story to change that much?

For the first time, Kent at least partially hopes so.


	4. New York

Alexei wants to meet Kent at an address uptown. 70-something and 5th, and checking it out, it’s a completely random residential area, far away from the usual sights.  Why he wants to meet there, Kent’s got no idea. But he agreed, and now he rides uptown in a cab, heart pounding so hard he can feel it in the pit of his stomach.

It’s been a few months. He’s had Alexei’s face in front of him constantly via Skype, but they haven’t had the chance to touch. Will he feel the urge, upon coming close to Alexei again? Or will it just feel like two old friends meeting? Kent’s not sure how to navigate it. It’s new and scary and he has no idea how to anticipate what it’s going to feel or look like when they’re breathing the same air.

_But that’s okay,_ he tells himself. _Don’t plan. Just breathe._ And he breathes carefully, aware of every inhalation as the cab speeds past Central Park. Outside, natives walk with their dogs or strollers, uncaring about the world around them. It helps, to know there’s less chance of being recognized up here. Maybe that’s what Alexei wanted. He’s a surprisingly smart guy.

He’s just surprising in general.

The cab turns, and Kent finds himself on a quiet residential street lined with brownstones. And there’s Alexei, ridiculously tall and with a smile Kent can see from half a block away. He pays and gets out, then crosses the sidewalk squares with his hand raised in a wave. “Tate!” he calls as he approaches. “Good to see you, buddy. What’s with the weird meeting place?”

In answer, Alexei sweeps forward, pulls Kent in by the arms, and kisses him.

It’s full and firm, and Kent’s melting before he can think to do anything else. His hands go up to rest on Alexei’s chest. He inhales the warm scent of Alexei, aware of the hard planes of his body, the largeness and closeness of him. Oh, God. God, _yes._ He’s wanted this. He’s been hoping for this. But he was in no way prepared to get it so easily and so quickly.

When Alexei pulls away, Kent’s breathless, almost shaking.

“Wanted to say hello to you like that,” Alexei says, a charge in his tone. “Didn’t want to do in middle of the city. This much safer.”

“That… uh.” Kent pants. “That was a good hello.”

“Good.” Alexei grins. His hands falls to his sides. Kent misses them instantly. “How you doing, Kent Parson?”

“I. Uh. Good, yeah, good.” Kent’s still fighting for breath.

“Really?” Alexei’s eyebrow dips into a half of a concerned V. “I’m not surprising you too much?”

Kent recovers himself enough to shoot Alexei a smile. “You always surprise me, Tate.”

“Yes, but if too much--” Is that worry painting Alexei’s brow? Kent wants to reach out, smooth down the lines that have formed there. “Not sure what you are wanting.”

It _is_ worry, and Kent feels an ache of sympathy for Alexei. He hasn’t thought much about what Alexei’s feelings for _him_ might be, but he doesn’t like the idea that he’s giving even a second of consternation to the guy who’s been nothing but there for him. “Tate, it’s okay,” he says, patting Alexei’s arm. “Honestly, I don’t know what I want either. But that was okay. I’m glad you kissed me.” His cheeks have probably gone red with the word, but whatever. “Let’s not worry too much about it, okay? Let’s just go have a good time.”

“Okay,” Alexei says, with a dawning smile. “I’m good at having good time.”

Kent laughs. “Yeah, dude,” he says. “You are.”

* * *

They walk through the park south toward downtown. It’s a long trek, but cheerful conversation makes it shorter; still, when they’re passing the south entrance to the park, the Plaza Hotel large across the street, Kent starts realizing he’s parched. He scans the street for a place to get some water and quickly spots a drugstore on a nearby corner.

In front of the drugstore sits a homeless man, gray all over from dirt and hardship and age. He’s holding out a battered coffee cup with a few pennies inside. Kent steals a glance at him as they pass, then stops as he’s about to pass through the door and turns back. “Hey,” he says.

The homeless man doesn’t answer. Kent walks back to meet him. “Hey, buddy,” he repeats. This time he gets a look in return. “I’m just going in to grab some water, you need anything?”

The man looks from him to Alexei and back. “Water?” he asks. Even his voice is gray. He scratches the grizzled stubble on his chin. “Can I have a water?”

“Yeah, no problem.” Kent says, “be right back.”

Alexei follows him into the store, casting a puzzled glance down at him. “Why you doing that?” he asks.

Kent shrugs. “Seemed like maybe I could get him something.” But he’s not really sure why he did. It’s not like he makes a habit of this. It just seems like the right thing to do, every so often. Kent’s not totally unaware of his own status. He’s no saint, but he’s sure as hell not a complete asshole.

And somehow it’s important to him that Alexei see that.

“You always doing things like this?” Alexei’s well and truly befuddled. “I start in New York, start doing those things but so many people need so much, I’m stopping.”

Kent shovels two bottles of water into his basket and heads back toward the paper goods section. Poor guy could probably use some tissues, too. “Not all the time. Just once in a while.”

“You’re not feeling bad, help some and not others?”

“Nah, man. I mean, I’m just one guy, right? I give some money to charity, I’m sure you do too, but every so often I just want to do something random and decent.” Would baby wipes be better than tissues? Kent gets both, just to be certain. “I dunno, maybe it’s penance for my sins or something.”

“You say I’m surprising,” Alexei murmurs as Kent heads down to get some deodorant for the guy as well. “You’re surprising one, Kent Parson. Very surprising.”

All told, Kent gets about 60 bucks’ worth of random essentials, including the two waters. He removes the one from the bag and hands the rest of his haul to the guy outside the door. “Hang in there,” he tells him. “Have a good day.” And down the street he heads, Alexei in tow. He’ll have a nice time imagining the look on the guy’s face when he finds the pair of hundreds at the bottom of the bag.

* * *

Next to the Plaza Hotel is a huge, multi-tiered fountain. Alexei stops in front of it, humming. “I’m finding penny to throw in,” he informs Kent, and enthusiastically digs through his pockets until he comes with a few loose coins. Happily, he chucks a penny into the water, grinning when it splashes and sinks.

Kent is reminded, briefly, of that first night, hucking rocks into the Providence canal. Alexei clearly likes throwing things. Maybe he missed his calling in the MLB. “No, man, you can’t just throw a penny in there,” he chides. “You gotta make a wish first.”

“Make a wish?” Alexei’s eyes dance. “Okay. I’m wishing for Stanley Cup.”

“No, you can’t do it now, it has to be before you throw it!” Kent laughs. He pulls out his wallet, looking for a penny to throw in. “When I was a kid I always had three pennies and three wishes. One for world peace. One for my family to be happy. And one for a Stanley Cup.”

“Same wish!” The grin on Alexei’s face fades as quickly as it appears. “But other wishes so serious.”

“It’s how I was raised,” Kent says. “If you want something for yourself, you gotta want twice as much for other people. So if I wanted the one wish for myself, I had to pay for it with two other wishes that weren’t for me. I don’t know, I pretty much decided that was dumb. But for the fountains, I kept it.”

“Is good idea,” Alexei says. He reaches for Kent’s hand, taking it palm-up and dumping a few coins into it. “You do it again now. End of season, we see who gets wish.”

“Fair enough,” Kent says. “This one’s for world peace.” He winds up and tosses a penny. “This one’s for Mom, and my hockey family.” Another goes sinking into the fountain. “And this one--”

He stops. He’s modified the three-wishes rule for several years now: his third wish lately has been for Jack. Just now, it almost slipped out. He stands stock still, frozen by the close call.

“You’re forgetting,” Alexei leans in close to him, and Kent shakes free of his paralysis. “Maybe you already have Stanley Cup, don’t need another?”

“Shut up,” Kent says, elbowing him. “This one’s for the Stanley Cup.” He tosses it, and Alexei gives a firm “hmm” of approval.

They leave the fountain behind, Alexei leading the way, big arms swinging at his sides, shoulders high and eyes fixed on the next cross street, next block, next adventure. Kent follows in somewhat bemused silence. Alexei is so big, so overwhelming. And Kent’s -- God help him but he’s _so_ attracted to him. But it never occurred to him to wish for Alexei. Maybe because he’s right here, so easy, so accessible. Why isn’t that enough for Kent? Why does he have to keep wishing for someone who seems to be doing fine without him?

He didn’t really need a wish for the Cup, Kent thinks as they move on. He needed a wish for himself, to figure out where he is and what he wants. Just today, he wishes he could have cast in a fourth penny.

* * *

They wander further south to Rockefeller Center. The ice rink is still well in season, and young couples and children skate around lazily in the afternoon sunshine. Kent looks over at Alexei. “Think we should go down? Show ‘em how it’s done?”

Alexei laughs. “You going down there, you’re hitting poor kids.”

“I would not, I do not.” Kent gives him a dirty look.

They stand and watch for a time. Kent is a little more on edge here, being among so many tourists, but nobody seems to recognize him. Even when a family goes by in Rangers hats, coming close enough to see Kent’s face clearly, nobody says anything. It’s a relief. Today Kent’s the one who just wants to be a normal guy on a normal date.

No such luck.

“Mom, mom!” the teenage girl is saying to her mother. “Did you see him? That guy back there. I think that was Mashkov.”

Mom clucks her tongue. “Honey, he’s not even a Ranger anymore, remember? He was traded a few years ago.”

“Ugh, Mom, I _know,_ but I’m telling you--”

Mom walks on, but Dad has turned back. “Actually, Carol, I think that actually may be him.” And the whole family starts creeping an inch closer, then two.

Kent laughs and leans on the railing overlooking the rink. “Don’t look now, Tate, but I think you’ve got fans.”

“Yes,” Alexei says, a mite warily. “Sometimes people are recognizing me in New York.”

“It’s great they still love you after you’ve been traded,” Kent says.

“Yes.” Alexei rolls his eyes. “When they love me, is great. When they’re being mad at me for going to Providence, is not so great.”

But this family seems to be fond of Alexei, Kent notes as they approach him shyly and Alexei answers with a big, friendly “Hi! Hello!” And it’s fun to watch him engage with fans. He takes selfies with each member of the family in turn, signs their hats, tells that that yes, he misses New York but is very happy in Providence. When they finally turn and leave, the father shakes his hand, and Alexei looks pleased as a puppy to have been so graced. Nobody turns to Kent or, for that matter, notices him at all.

And it’s okay. For maybe the first time in his life, Kent’s totally cool with being shunted to the side and not recognized. He doesn’t need to be _the_ Kent Parson, not today. It’s too fun to watch Alexei be _the_ Alexei Mashkov, and he doesn’t want to detract from that.

And Alexei’s smile is so bright. Kent could watch him like that for a long time. Just being bright and happy and himself. How weird, to not think of himself for so long. Alexei’s happiness seems to be enough for both of them.

* * *

That happiness persists, a big luminous bubble in Kent’s chest that every so often threatens to pop or expand painfully. As they wander down toward Times Square, Alexei is animated about what shows he’s seen, what he liked (Wicked) and what he didn’t (Chicago). He tells Kent stories about running into stars outside the stage doors and enthuses as though he isn’t a star in his own right. Kent chirps him about it, and Alexei pouts, such an abject display of humiliation that Kent’s forced to repent. They make their way toward the thick of the blazing lights and crowds.

Kent’s aware of Alexei’s presence in the crowd more than ever. He’s an oak tree, a straight shot upwards from the sea of moving heads, and Kent watches with some envy. He was built for speed, not brute force, but Alexei could easily be a mob enforcer or the terrifying bouncer at an upscale nightclub. With all that height and all that muscle, he should be anything but gentle, and yet somehow he is able to touch Kent with the gentlest hands and the softest lips Kent’s ever felt.

Abruptly, Kent wants -- needs -- to feel it again.

The crowd presses them together, and he takes advantage of the crush to slip his hand into Alexei’s. Alexei’s gaze flashes to his in an instant, but Kent doesn’t let go. In this, the most likely place of all to be recognized, he’s safe so long as Alexei’s palm is pressed to his.

“My hotel’s a couple blocks down,” he murmurs, leaning in so the words touch only Alexei’s ears. “Want to go up there for a while?”

* * *

They squeeze through the hotel room door and are immediately in each other’s arms. Alexei kisses Kent thoroughly, big hands cupping his face, as Kent pants and presses against him, trying to hurry things along. But Alexei won’t have it. When Kent pulls back to yank his shirt over his head, Alexei stops him. “I want to,” he says, dark eyes blazing.

Kent lets him. Alexei strips him down piece by piece, guides him to the bed and presses him into the mattress with the full weight of his body. Kent’s never felt so deliciously dominated, not in the worst scrum or the most lopsided fistfight. Alexei looms over him, and even when he lifts up onto his knees, he holds Kent down with a gaze. Kent can’t move, doesn’t move. He just watches in fascination as Alexei applies those strong hands and that achingly patient mouth everywhere.

He’s never felt like this before. He’s flying. Past and future are cut off, and all Kent knows is the endless wellspring of warmth that’s overflowing in the core of him. When Alexei comes close, Kent pulls him down with eager hands. When he retreats, Kent aches for him.The push-pull of wanting and getting brings them together over and over, takes them beyond a place of mere pleasure into a kind of bottomless belonging that’s sweeter than any victory has ever been. Kent’s breathless and undone by the end of it, clinging to Alexei, shaking with it all. “Tate,” he mumbles against Alexei’s bare neck. “Oh, my God, Tate.”

“Yes,” Alexei murmurs, “yes, Kent Parson. I’m here.”

And isn’t that enough? Kent doesn’t know why he’d need anything else, ever. This crazy euphoria singing through his system right now has happened independent of any expectations, any story he might have been telling himself. Whatever he’s been struggling with, it’s gone, just for now. He’s happy, and isn’t that enough? For now, and maybe forever?

Kent settles against Alexei’s chest,, Alexei’s arms around him, and lets the hotel room’s air conditioning breathe over them. “Wow,” he hears himself say, and “Man.” They’re incomplete words, and he struggles for more. What he finds is, “I don’t know what the hell we’re doing here, Tate. I really don’t.”

“Is it important?” Alexei asks. “To have name for it?”

Kent chews on this. “Maybe,” he says. “Maybe not, I don’t know. I’m so fucked up about this, honestly. You … turn me around somehow. I forget all the rest of it. You show up and I’m -- I’m somewhere else entirely. I’m not even in my own damn life anymore, I’m just here. With you,” he adds, and finds Alexei’s hand with his own, lifting it gently.

“Sounds like good thing.”

“Maybe.” Kent groans. “My shrink says I plan too much. She says I’m always trying to anticipate what’s gonna happen. But I didn’t see this coming.”

“Me, too.” Alexei’s voice is a low, pleasant rumble against Kent’s skin. “Not seeing when I’m playing you, getting mad about your hitting. Sometimes I’m thinking I’m crazy, you know? But…” He pauses, running a hand up Kent’s arm. Kent shivers. “I’m happy this is happening. I’m … liking you very much, Kent Parson.”

Kent rolls over and stares Alexei down. “What do you see in me, Tate?” he asks. “Seriously. What have I got that you want so badly?”

Alexei runs that big hand over his cheek now. The rush of warmth is so sudden that Kent flinches.

“You know how to have fun,” Alexei says, slowly, carefully. “You know when to letting go, when to be focus. You have heart that you are not showing to many people. I’m lucky to see it. It’s beautiful heart, little mouse. It cares about so many things.”

“I don’t care about --” Kent stops. For the latter half of an instant, he can see himself as Alexei sees him. The fans he stopped for in Vegas. The homeless man. Even the goddamn fountain. It knocks him backwards, makes his brain turn in dizzy flips.

“Fuck,” he says. “You make me sound like some kind of hero.”

“You are hero,” Alexei tells him. “Maybe you’re just not knowing of which story.”

Kent blinks. For the first time, and out of nowhere, he suddenly can see another narrative taking shape. One in which Jack is a background, a love lost and learned from. A story in which Kent Parson and Alexei Mashkov come together and learn from each other, live for each other. A story in which Kent can see comfortable, joyful days stretching on into infinity.

But it feels like a lie. A consoling, aimless lie he’s telling himself to make the hurt go away. The hurt’s always been part of the story. It’d be too easy to just wish it away, wouldn’t it? And in this new story, where’s Kent’s quest for the Cup, his struggles to get Jack to turn his way again? What does all of it mean, if it’s not part of the same epic tale of redemption and glory that he’s been living for so many years? There’s not enough fight in this new story, not enough struggle. It’s altogether too easy.

He worms out of Alexei’s embrace and rolls onto his stomach on the bed, burying his face in the sheet. “You ought to leave,” he says. “You ought to get out of here, Tate. I’m no good for you. I’m gonna make your life miserable sooner or later, and you’re gonna be gone anyway.”

“Who you think I am?” Alexei says quietly.

Kent lifts his head. His voice comes out rough. “...What?”

“You think I’m just leaving you?” Alexei runs a hand slowly down Kent’s back. “You think minute this stops being fun, I go away? Look for someone else?”

Kent stumbles over his own tongue. “Would-- wouldn’t you?”

“What you think I feel,” Alexei presses, “when I look at you? What you think I see?”

“I dunno.” Kent tries to toss it off, light. “Spoiled rich kid, maybe? Fucked-up boy toy?”

“ _Kid, boy…_ these words you use for yourself?”

“No, but--”

“I see man.” Alexei’s tone is firm, rich. “Man like other man. Has past, has future. Not know, maybe, what to do with them.” His hand presses into Kent’s lower back, big and weighty. “Kent Parson, you same as other men. Maybe you stop thinking you’re so special, huh? Stop thinking you only fucked up one. We are all fucked up. I’m fucked up a lot of time.”

“You? Nah.” Kent shakes his head into the blanket. “You’re so well-adjusted it makes me sick.”

“I’m playing game where I’m hitting head hard four, five times a week.” Alexei reminds him. Kent laughs weakly. “That’s fucked up enough, yes? We’re even, you and me. Just the same.”

“Hah! Partners in head trauma.” Kent turns over, propping himself up on his elbows. Maybe Alexei’s right. Maybe he doesn’t need a huge drama with endless complications. Maybe they can just be _them._

“That’s right,” Alexei says, glowing at him. “We’re partners. Tate and Kenny.”

Kent’s blood freezes in his veins.

In that moment, it all comes crashing down.  The careful shelter he’d built up around the two of the, the fragile divider to keep what they are together from the rest of the world -- it’s gone. The Kent who’s been carelessly cavorting with Alexei Mashkov runs into the guy who’s been carrying a chip on his shoulder since juniors, and they can’t both exist in the same place. Kent shatters,  curling onto his side.  “Fuck,” he mutters. “Fuck. Fuck, fuck.”

“What? What’s wrong?” Alexei leans over and rubs his back. “Kenny, what’s--”

“ _Don’t,_ ” Kent pleads. Fuck, he feels all weak and fragile and ready to shatter all at once. “Don’t, don’t call me that. Shit.” He buries his face in the bed, feeling like a child and a fool. “Don’t call me that.”

“Okay.” Alexei’s voice is gentle. “Okay. I’m just trying to give you good name. I’m liking ‘Tate’ so much, wanting to give you same. Just Ken okay? I can call you Ken.”

“Yeah. _Shit._ ” Kent forces the words out of his mouth. “Yeah, that’s fine. Shit. Fuck, Tate, I can’t-- I can’t do this. I can’t. It’s wrong. You and me, this -- us -- it’s wrong.”

“Wrong?” Horror fills Alexei’s eyes. “You’re not wanting...?”

“No, I fucking _do_ , I fucking _want_ , but it’s still wrong.” Bitterness floods Kent’s heart, seeps into his voice like the cold touch of poison. He’s never known what to do with poison, except for spread it. Share it.

“You don’t get it, Tate,” he says. “We weren’t supposed to… you’re not supposed to be here. You’re not in the goddamn story.”

Alexei looks at him, waiting for more.

Kent obliges. “This whole thing -- my whole life -- it’s not supposed to be about you.” With every word, he feels himself falling, but it’s too late. He can’t stop. “You came in here like you’re the point, like you’re the goddamn love of my life, but you’re _not_. You’re the best friend, you’re the sidekick, but the story’s not about you. It’s--” and fuck, what else can he do but _say_ it-- “it’s about Jack. It was always about me and Jack, and I don’t know how the hell I let that slip, but it can’t- it won’t.”

“You are still loving Zim-- Jack?” Alexei asks. “You’re wanting me to leave?”

“Yes. Fuck. No. I don’t know. I don’t know how I fucking feel, okay?” Kent springs to his feet, grabbing his boxers from the floor and shoving them on roughly. He paces in the small space at the foot of the bed. “Jack and I were always supposed to be together in the end. We were the best in the world. The fucking best. And then -- then Jack got fucked up, and I lost him, and this whole time -- this whole fucking time -- I’ve just been waiting.”

He squeezes his eyes shut tight and leans against the wall. “This is how it’s supposed to go. I beat Jack in the final. He figures out that he’ll never be the best in the world, not alone. Not without me. And then next season he’s in Vegas with me, and we’re a team again -- and -- and Jack and I--” He clenches his fists. God damn it, it sounds so stupid and petty when he says it like this. “I’m not supposed to be fucking around with some other random guy, having-- having fucking _feelings_ when the whole point is Jack--”

“I’m not random guy,” Alexei says in a low voice.

Kent’s eyes fly open. “Fuck, Tate, that’s not what I--”

“I’m not best friend. I’m not sidekick.” And shit, that’s-- that’s the voice Kent heard on the ice in October, the rising tone, the anger. He sees it on Alexei’s face now, the dip of his brows and the downward curl of his wide mouth, and he knows he’s finally said the thing that can’t be unsaid.

Alexei rises from the bed. He pulls on his boxers and his pants, wordless. Kent watches him, trying to find the words to undo what he’s done. He can’t. As Alexei pulls his shirt over the long plane of his back, Kent wants to reach out and stop him, but he can’t do that either. All he can do is wait, and flinch when Alexei turns back to him, face full of hurt and rage.

“You’re forgetting me, Kent Parson,” Alexei says. His voice shakes with anger. “You’re thinking only about you and Jack, and you’re thinking I’m nobody.”

“I didn’t-- Tate, you’re my best _friend_ \--” The words aren’t nearly enough. They come out tremulous and too soft.

“I have a name,” Alexei says. “I’m Alexei Mashkov. I’m an important person. I have family, I have team, I have friends. I’m owner of house and boat. I’m not needing to have _boy toy_ \--” Kent’s own words, thrown back at him -- “to have happy life, Kent Parson. I’m not needing you to be boyfriend, or needing sex. But I’m here meeting you, because I think you and me, we’re good together. But if you’re not thinking that--”

“Shit, no, Tate.” Kent’s breathless, terrified. “We _are_ good together, I didn’t mean--”

“You’re not knowing what you mean!” Alexei’s voice rises to a shout. Kent cringes. “You’re not knowing what you’re wanting or who you’re loving. You only know stupid story you’re telling yourself about Jack, but you’re the only one listening to story! Jack is not listening! Jack is not doing something just because you’re thinking it makes a good story, Kent Parson!”

The words crush Kent’s heart, but they’re not a surprise. They’re not a revelation. Kent _knows_ , has known for longer than he cares to admit. He feels tears rising to his eyes, and bites down on his lip hard, to keep them down but also to keep himself from saying anything else. He’s dug this hole so deep, he doesn’t want to find out how much deeper it can go.

“You need to choose which story you want,” Alexei tells him. His voice is softer now, but the hurt is still aching in each word. “If you’re wanting story with Jack, go get him, I’m staying out of your way. But I’m stupid to be loving you while you’re not even seeing me as real person. So I’m leaving, and you’re deciding what you want.”

Kent watches Alexei gather his things and move toward the door. He’s in a slow-motion daze of horror. Ire rises in his gut, and he’s lashing out before he can help himself. “Go, then,” he spits. “Take off. Fuck you, Tate. You _just_ said you weren’t gonna leave when things stopped being fun. Well, guess fucking _what_. I’m a basket case. You _knew_ that.”

Alexei’s voice is tinged with sadness. “You’re right,” he says. “I’m knowing this. But you’re not knowing what you want, Kent Parson. _Ken._ You need time, so I’m giving. Take time. Think.”

The fight goes out of Kent then. Alexei’s right -- he doesn’t know what he wants. All he knows is that when he thinks about Jack not wanting him, he gets fire under his skin. When he thinks about Alexei rejecting him, the whole world’s ice and rain.

“Goodbye, Ken,” Alexei says, and puts his hand on the doorknob.

“Tate,” Kent blurts out. “Tate. What if I-- what if I _do_ want you?”

“Then you make sure,” Alexei answers. “And then you find me. But I’m waiting until you’re sure.”

A turn of the knob, the soft slide of a hotel room door, and Kent’s alone.

Alone, and so what? Alone doesn’t scare him. Kent wanted it, didn’t he? He had to drive Alexei away, before he hurt him more. Because Alexei -- Alexei is just a sideline -- it’s Jack --

\-- but Kent is _shaking_ , and sliding down against the wall of the hotel room to crouch close to the carpet --

because with Jack, every setback was just more adversity to add to the epic. With Jack, he could always write around the unexpected. But there’s no narrative to attach to what he and Alexei have been doing, no way to peer into the future and see how it’ll all work out in the end.

He could lose Alexei. He may have already lost him. And that could be the end of the story.


	5. Providence, Again

The rest of the season would have been a lot easier if Alexei had just left him alone.

But he didn’t. And granted, that’s probably Kent’s fault. Because Alexei had a really good game about a week later, two goals and two assists, and Kent wanted to congratulate him so bad it hurt. Eventually he sent a text:

 **me:** _i know you’re fuckin mad at me but i just wanted to say good game._

A few minutes later, his phone buzzed.

 **Tate:** _not mad at you little mouse. Just giving you space._  
**Tate:** _thank you._

At the time, Kent had been relieved. It was okay to text Alexei, he wasn’t angry, he wasn’t going to ignore Kent. But he hadn’t anticipated how much it would hurt, day to day.

Alexei sends him texts that are friendly. Appropriate. Milquetoast. He congratulates Kent on wins. He says, _See you at the final._ Gone is the personal interest, the humor. The biting observations Kent had come to count on. He sends a few texts himself, trying to rev Alexei’s engine a bit.

 **me:** _how’d you get up from that fuckin hit the other day. oh wait, your head is made of stone, i forgot._  
**Tate:** _haha_

The _haha_ is ubiquitous. It’s all Alexei sends back. Every _haha_ is like another cut to the heart. Kent might as well be getting texts from a stranger.

They sure as hell don’t Skype. And as the season winds down and their playoff spots are assured, they don’t even have that much time to text. Day and night is spent with the team. Kent’s always training. He’s always skating, or watching tape. Getting to know the teams the Aces will go head-to-head with in the playoffs. Kent’s familiar with the routine, and it’s a comfort this time around. More hockey, less …. everything else. Less thinking about what’s supposed to be, what could have been.

But nights are still bad. Nights, Kent feels like he’s straddling two worlds, and on the wrong side of both. On the one hand, he’s closer than ever to his original dream. But on the other hand, he’s afraid of letting what he has with Alexei slip away. And it seems further every day. What Kent wouldn’t give for one evening like the one in Vegas, or Providence, or New York -- that feeling that it’s all on hold, and he can just be himself. Be with Alexei. Just _live_.

How strange, to be back in the main event and miss the intermission. If it ever was just an intermission to begin with.

* * *

He keeps seeing Eleanor. Sometimes they’re Skype sessions, long distance from hotel rooms. The first time they meet after New York, though, it’s in person. Kent starts talking and doesn’t stop until he’s told her everything. His day with Alexei, their ending up in the hotel room, Alexei’s insistence that Kent choose what he wants.

“So,” she asks, “how are you feeling about this?”

Kent glowers. “Pissed.”

“At your friend Tate?”

“He fucking knew. He knew about Jack. He knew I was fucked up. He had no fucking _right_ \--” But the words sound empty, and what’s more, they seem _mean._ Kent’s never had any illusions about being a nice guy, but Alexei doesn’t deserve that. Not Alexei. Not the guy who’s never been anything but one hundred percent there for him. Kent’s actually mad at the asshole who’s just said all that shit about his best friend, even though _he’s_ that asshole.

He sighs. “No. Not at him. It’s my own goddamn fault. I’m the one who let it get this far. I should never have--”

But he can’t say that either. He walks it through in his mind. Is there any decision he would have made differently, if he’d known this would happen? Would he -- could he -- have turned down Alexei’s invitation to walk around Providence? Not allowed that first kiss? Would he even have stopped Alexei from calling him _Kenny_ , even though that had been the beginning of the end?

“I hurt him,” Kent admits. “Out of everything, I feel shittiest about that. Tate’s been… he’s been such a goddamned good friend to me… and I could have spared him all of this. I had no reason to rub it in about Jack. He knew it all already. Hell, he’s the reason I’m even talking to you.”

“He suggested you seek therapy?”

“Yeah. Didn’t I tell you that?”

She cocks her head to the side, makes a note on her pad. “It sounds like he cares a lot about you.”

“Yeah.”

“Do you think he’s in love with you?” Eleanor asks.

Kent saw the question coming, but it still feels like a wrecking ball slamming into his side. “I… I don’t know. Yeah, maybe. I guess he is.”

And he sees the next question coming too. But he can’t stop it. He can only flinch as it bears down.

“And what about you? Are you in love with him?”

Kent leaves it unanswered for a long time. He sits, and he breathes, and he runs the little rake through that ridiculous mini rock garden.

“Maybe a little,” he says.

Shit.

* * *

The Aces advance past the first round of playoffs. So do the Falconers. Two more each and they’ll be face to face in Providence for Game One of the Final.

He’s that much closer, Kent realizes. The final showdown he’d seen coming down the pike so long ago is around the corner. He’ll be on the same ice as Jack, eyes on the same prize. Jack will have to take notice of him then, and it’s easy for Kent to start hoping that the gears of that old story will kick into action again. For the recognition of his talents, the potential of what Kent and Jack could be together. As much as Kent tries not to focus on it -- and he does, he knows it’s not what’s important right now -- it’s still there to fall back on, a comforting illusion.

And these days, thinking about Jack hurts less just because thinking about Alexei hurts more.

Kent’s spent far too many moments thinking about what it means to admit he’s a little in love with Alexei. Does it mean he doesn’t love Jack anymore? But Kent knows it’s possible to love more than one person. Hell, he knows people… well, that doesn’t matter. They’re not him. And he’s not sure if he’d want that, even if he could have it. The point is, Alexei was never supposed to matter. He certainly wasn’t supposed to matter more than Jack. And now, abruptly he does, and Kent can’t help feeling like someone changed the rules of his life when he wasn’t looking.

“It’s like this,” he tells Eleanor. “You’re on the ice, right? And the goal is there. It’s in the same place, and all you gotta do is get there. You look around, you see where your guys are, you figure out who’s the best to pass to or whether it’s smarter to take a shot, but the goal is in the same goddamn place no matter what. That’s how it’s always been for me. The goal has always been in the same place. It’s Jack. It’s always been Jack.”

“But now you have feelings for someone else,” Eleanor reminds him. “So you get to choose which game you’re playing. Which goal do you want to shoot for?”

“That,” he tells her crabbily, “is not a fucking part of the game.”

“And that,” she returns, “is why life’s a lot harder than a game.”

Kent pouts at her. “Well, fuck life. How the hell am I supposed to choose one when I don’t even know if I’m gonna get what I want?”

“Nobody gets that guarantee,” she says with a touch of sympathy.

“Then why the fuck does anyone do anything? Everything’s too fucking risky.”

“Funny to hear,” she comments, “from someone who takes his life in his hands every time he steps into a rink.”

“My life’s one thing,” he starts. “My--”

He stops. He was going to say, _my heart’s another._

* * *

The second series is over too soon. They sweep the Stars. Poor guys barely put up a fight. Kent tries, experimentally, to feel shitty about it. It doesn’t much work.

Alexei doesn’t send him a text after the sweep. Kent keeps checking for one. And he keeps feeling like a fool. God damn it, he misses him. He wants nothing more than to lie down on his bed and tell Alexei all about how the Stars’ O-lines may look pretty but can’t get shit done. He happens to know which one on that team is Alexei’s secret crush, and oh, the dirt he could share if he only could get his friend back.

Hell, he’d even consider making it official. He could stand to be Alexei’s boyfriend. The thought of it is actually really nice. Staying in constant touch. Getting together just to _be_ together, no promise of sex or artificial barriers. He kind of wants to be exposed to the crazy Russian movies Alexei’s told him about. A night in, swigging beers and watching TV and cuddling. Kent wants it so much he has to look in the mirror to make sure he’s still _himself._

But when he gets around to the question -- _is this it? Has he decided? Is he letting Jack go?_ \-- there’s a voice in his head -- one Kent doesn’t recognize -- warning him, _not quite yet._

He and Eleanor talk about the games, about what happens if the Aces make the finals.  (“ _When_ the Aces make the finals,” Kent tells her, with his usual sharp-edged smile.  She returns it with her own version of that expression and “you need to start thinking in terms of _ifs_.”)

They work on the line between positive and negative visualizations. Kent does his level best to imagine winning the Cup without adding in Jack’s capitulation. Separating the two isn’t easy. But Kent notices that even when he does imagine Jack coming to him all starry-eyed and begging to return, the whole scenario feels a little less real. Like paper dolls, cardboard cutouts rather than real people. There’s no dimension to them any longer. Still, they’ve been in the background for so long, it’s hard for Kent to imagine his landscape without them.

He lies awake at night, in the scant days off while the other teams play their longer series out, and imagines it in as much detail as he can muster. The look in Jack’s eyes, the way he trips over his words when he comes to Kent’s side and congratulates him on a championship well won. The very words. _I’ll talk to my managers. Kenny, you were right. You were so right. It’s got to be this. It’s got to be us._

Kent’s aware he’s being a hypocrite -- promising Eleanor he’ll work on stopping his runaway imagination, then drawing every specific of the scenario in his mind when she’s not around to chide him. He has the contrary, heady high of a child sneaking downstairs at midnight to raid the cookie jar. But along with the sense of can’t-stop-me rebellion, he also has the sense he’s scrabbling desperately to hold onto something that’s drifting away. The more he imagines it all, the less real it seems.

Maybe that means he’s chosen. But the thought of leaving it all behind, when he tries to properly entertain it, gives him a visceral shudder. He can’t. It’s been his whole _life._ He can’t just let it all go.

* * *

The Sharks put up more of a fight than the Stars did, but Kent has limited patience for mountain-man beards, and he cuts through their clutter in six games. And that’s the end of it. The Aces are going to the Stanley Cup Final. And, with a dramatic seventh-game win over the Pens, so are the Falconers.

It’s happening. It’s really happening.

They fly up to Providence on Saturday to start two days of intensive practice before Monday’s Game 1. The press is waiting for them at the airport. Someone gets a microphone in his face. “A big showdown against Jack Zimmermann! Did you always know this would happen?”

Kent shoots his best, most disarming smile. “I had a feeling, yeah.” No lie there.

They don’t come into contact with the opposing team. There isn’t time, and their entrances and exits to the stadium are all carefully choreographed. Kent, along with his team, moves in and out of the catacombs of the stadium complex and remembers the last time he was here. He’d waited there -- right _there_ \-- for Jack to emerge from the locker room. Instead, he’d come face to face with a tall, belligerent guy he barely knew, and been told in no uncertain terms to get the fuck out.

Funny, how that guy ended up being so much more than a stranger. Funny how now, it’s him, not Jack, that Kent keeps hoping against hope he’ll run into.

The day before Game 1, he finally gives in and texts Alexei.

 **me:** _Do you want to get together? i mean, just so we don’t meet up first thing at center ice._

The response is immediate and disappointing.

 **Tate:** _we’re rivals this week. Not good to meet, I don’t think._

He’s right, of course -- it is a bad idea -- but it stings anyhow. Kent closes his eyes and counts his breaths, like Eleanor taught him to. It helps ground him.

That night, he goes to that hole-in-the-wall bar and sits in front of the TV screens. He orders a vodka, for no particular reason. Nobody darkens the door and comes to sit next to him.

* * *

Kent Parson is, if nothing else, the captain of the Las Vegas Aces. As the fans mill about in the stands above their heads, a muted cacophony, he gathers his starting line in the locker room and tells them what they need to hear.

“Benjy, you’re good, just keep that speed up and try to stay clear of their bigger guys as best you can,” he says. “Coco, keep your head down, you’ve been a hell of an addition to the top line this season. Glad to be facing down this game with you, brother. Buxxy, Fitz, you two just keep your heads out of your-- out of _each other’s_ asses and you’ll be solid against this O-line. Ozzie, you know your business better than anyone else out there. Do what you do. We’ve got this.”

They break the huddle and head out to the ice to deafening cheers.

It’s a Stanley Cup Final game, so despite the Providence locale, the crowd is just barely split in favor of the Falconers. Everyone’s excited to catch a glimpse of the champion Aces, and Kent grins at the crowd, taking in the adoration. Hatred comes in equal measure, but Kent just absorbs it all as energy. This is his scene, his moment. He was born for times like these.

And then the Falcs take the ice.

As #1, Jack’s first announced and first out. As he skates out, all business as usual, Kent follows his movements. What’s Jack thinking right now? Has he thought about Kent at all during this whole playoff process? He has to have, he has to have been studying Kent’s play at least. Neither of them has stood still and --

Abruptly, Jack looks in his direction. His eyes catch Kent’s.

Kent very nearly loses his balance.  Holy shit, the _intensity_ of that gaze. Jack didn’t just look at him, Jack looked _for_ him. He’s locked gazes with Kent on purpose, to make sure Kent saw him looking. What the hell does it mean? Is it just Jack’s familiar competitive spirit, or -- no, there’s a new spark there Kent isn’t used to, doesn’t understand. Something that wasn’t there in October or December. It revs all kinds of engines under Kent’s skin and makes his heart lurch with hope. It also takes away the sting of disappointment when Alexei skates onto the ice and purposefully looks away from the Aces line.

But then the game is on and everything is slamming bodies and elusive pucks. There’s little room for thought. Kent revs up on raw emotion, and there’s no shortage of it. It gives him energy. Individual names and numbers blend into blurs of blue and white, indistinguishable arms and legs and sticks and torsos. The anonymity of speed. Kent uses it both as a disguise and as blinders. He’s too quick to be seen, and he’s moving too fast to notice who he’s stealing from, who he’s outskating. The only thing worth focusing on is the puck.

The Aces take Game 1, 3-1. Kent’s jubilant, hugging Coco and Swoops and Benjy, after the final goal into the empty net. The one Falcs goal was off of Jack’s stick, but that’s as it should be. For the first time in a long time, Kent feels like he’s finally on track to getting his promised happy ending.

He’s so high on it, he doesn’t remember to catch Jack’s eye, or to avoid Alexei’s. Tonight belongs to the boys, and Kent parties with them as late as he can before Fitz, the stickler that he is, insists that they all go the hell to bed for tomorrow’s game. Kent crawls into his hotel room bed weary and happy. This is the life that he’s meant to lead. It’s just been thrown into confusion lately, but right now, everything’s so goddamn clear.

The second game is an even more decisive victory, 5-2, and two of those goals and one assist are Kent’s. The media talks about a potential sweep, but Kent cautions his team not to listen to the hype. “We gotta keep our heads down and play our game,” he says, but that’s not the real reason he’s skeptical. He just knows the story very well by now, and he knows the final fight won’t be a rout. It’ll be a seven-game series, because anything less would be anticlimactic. They’ll have to struggle for it.

He’s right. The Falcs shut them out in Game 3. Kent was prepared for a defeat, but not a shutout, and it stings. He considers briefly putting that pretentious fucker of a goalie, Snow, on his shit list, but then it occurs to him that the last time he roughed up Snow, he had Alexei to deal with afterward.

_Fuck. Mashkov. On the ice he’s Mashkov._

He’s not. He’s Alexei now, in Kent’s mind, everywhere and forever.

They fly back to Vegas for Games 4-6. The Falcs win Game 4, 3-2. It’s a squeaker that comes down to the final minutes. Toward the end, Kent’s exhausted and desperate, and he gets in Alexei’s face without even realizing that’s who he’s high-sticking. He ends up in the box, frustrated and unable to do anything but watch as the Falcs milk a last-minute power play for the winning goal. Sitting there, Kent has a moment of weakness when he remembers the feel of Alexei’s body moving against his. He leaves the arena that night from the side door and drives home doing 85.

At home, he flops on his bed and lets emotion take him over for an indulgent evening. He fantasizes, he anticipates, he imagines -- and he hurts. God, he hurts more than he’s let himself hurt in a long time. He curls up his bed and fights back a flood of tears brought about by adrenaline as much as emotion.

He shouldn’t miss Alexei this much. He can’t afford to. He should be thinking about Jack.

Because if he can get over Jack, that means Alexei can get over him.

Which means he might be left with nothing and no one.

* * *

The outpouring of emotion refreshes and steadies him. The Aces take the next game in overtime. It’s now 3-2 Aces, and going into Game 6 the crowd is jazzed at the idea of watching the Aces take the cup on home ice. If the Falcs win this one, it’s back to Providence for Game 7. Kent tells his boys that they’re going to win it tonight, but he knows better. He knows that when this happens, it’s going to happen in Providence.

It’s a hell of a game, and after a 4-4 regulation tie and a scoreless OT, the Falcs take it in a shootout. Kent knew it would happen, but it’s still a shock to the system. Lost, he lingers in the locker room too long afterward, then wanders out into the Vegas night to discover a gaggle of Falconers still signing autographs for a small crowd that’s gathered there. Jack’s among them.

Kent tries to walk by them all, ignoring the crowd and the cries that go up at his appearance. “Not tonight,” he mutters as he goes. Fitzgerald notices him and lights up, but says nothing. Snow gives him a dirty look.

Jack, though… Jack fixes him with a look and ...

“Kent.”

Kent nearly chokes on his own spit. Holy shit, Jack is _speaking_ to him. Jack said his _name._ He croaks. “Z… Zimms,” he says. “See you in Providence.”

“You bet,” says Jack, and there’s that look again, and that smile -- half-familiar, half-expected, but half something else entirely.

Kent walks away hurriedly, befuddled and flustered. What’s happening? Why is Jack warming up toward him now?

And why does it feel so heart-sinkingly wrong?

* * *

“What’s happening?” he begs into the screen the night before the final game. “I’m freaking out and I don’t know why. I can’t go into Game 7 like this.”

Eleanor gives him the same placid look he’s used to. “I’m surprised you’re not more freaked out,” she says. “You’re in an intense place right now, Kent. It shouldn’t shock you that you’re experiencing some anxiety.”

“I’ve been here before,” he says. “I’ve won a motherfucking Stanley Cup before. I never freaked out like this. What the hell is going on?”

“Do you remember what you told me last week?” she asks. “When we first met? You told me this was how you expected things to happen, right? You were going to meet in the Finals and that Jack would notice you.”

“I know, I know, and it’s happening just like I thought it would. So why?”

“Let me ask you this. It’s what you expected. But is it what you want?”

“What the hell does that mean? I mean, of course I do. I want--.” He trails off.

Eleanor presses her lips together. “...What? What do you want?”

The words are surprisingly hard to summon up. “The Cup. Of course. And… and you know, I want Jack to-- I want him to notice me again. I want him to want me back.”

There’s a beat of uncomfortable silence. Eleanor makes a note.

“What?” Kent bursts out. “What the hell are you writing down?”

She puts down her pen. Her visage on the screen goes blocky and pixelated for a moment, then resolves. “Can I ask you something?”

Kent has no patience for this. “You’re my fucking shrink, isn’t that your job?”

“Fair enough. But this question, you might not have an answer for.”

Kent doubts that very much. He has an answer for everything. “Okay.”

“My question is this,” she says. “You want Jack to want you. You’ve said that much. But Kent, _do you want Jack?_ ”

* * *

The stadium is deafening. Kent skates onto the ice and waves to the crowd. He’s feeling surprisingly good for having been wrestling with questions about the meaning of his fucking life. But hockey’s always been this for him. A constant. The ice, the sticks, the crowds -- this he lives for. He lifts both hands over his head and waves up at the nosebleeds, then turns around and does the same in the other direction. It’s fucking great. He’s at Game 7 of the Stanley Cup Finals and he wants to milk the moment for everything it’s got.

Coco faces off against Jack to start the game. Jack wins the faceoff, and the puck goes spiraling down the ice toward the Aces zone. The screams echo in Kent’s ears as he races after it. He’s got this, he’s got this game and he’s got a second Cup and he’s got all his dreams wrapped up in a big honking bow. He’s metal and he’s wood, a skate and a stick, and all his flesh is just there to tie it all together. Breath and blood don’t matter. Just this moment. Just this game.

This is when he feels the most vital, the most himself. Skates scrape and sticks knock against ice, and  Kent’s in the thick of it, dancing on this great drum that everyone’s beating. He gets the puck out of his zone. Drives it forward. Shoots. It’s saved. He goes around for another try.  This time, defense gets in his way. He skates toward the bench for a line change, sits and grabs his water. Already he’s breathless, already his adrenaline’s pumping a mad rhythm through his veins. God fucking damn, but he loves this sport.

It’s only on the bench that he remembers the pressure, the high stakes. Funny how, when he’s in the thick of it, it’s just a game. Here on the bench, he gets in his own head, he remembers the whole story. It’s like --

Well, it’s like when he’s with Alexei, isn’t it? He forgets everything around him and just _lives_. And those are his favorite moments, too. On the ice or with Alexei. And, now that he remembers, it was like that with Jack in the beginning, too. Just the two of them with no limits, no boundaries and no endings. It’s not like that anymore. Now, he watches Jack skate back and forth and sees not Jack himself but the weight of a thousand threads of narrative that Kent’s attached to him. Jack’s a marionette, the puppet of a larger plot, and as Kent watches him slide to a stop for a faceoff, he can abruptly see just how taut his strings are pulled. It doesn’t seem fair to Jack at all. It must hurt.

Kent turns his attention to Alexei now. It’s the first time he’s let himself really _watch_ him, aside of watching his play, since playoffs began. Alexei’s huge, not entirely graceful, more like a big goose than a swan. (“Whole world is open,” he’d said, that first night, spreading his arms. Kent had thought of him as a goose then, too.) But there’s an indefatigable energy to his movements, and Kent allows himself for a few moments to love them without reservation. He loves the way Alexei’s thighs bulge as he revs up along the boards. He loves the gritty growl etched onto Alexei’s face. He loves the almost obscene tightness of his hands on the stick.

And then he’s being pushed into play with a “Parser!” and a shove, and love takes a back seat once again.

The Aces take an early 1-0 lead, but by the end of the first period, the Falcs have tied it up, 1-1. Kent retreats to the locker room for break, changes, washes his face off, and gathers his guys together. They talk quickly with the coaches about what they’ve seen, how they’re gonna adjust for the next period. Swoops, who scored the first goal, is pulled out to talk to the media. Kent stays behind and stretches. His heart never slows down.

The second period is a mess. Kent doesn’t get enough ice time. When he is there, he’s shorthanded half the time -- Coco gets a penalty for hooking and Fitz (of all people!) one for tripping. Sneaky motherfucker. The Falcs get two goals, one on a power play. It’s 3-1 Falcs by the end of the second.

There’s no fucking way it ends like this. That much Kent knows. He goes into the third gunning for bear, and he gets it -- Jack and Alexei’s line is against his from the start, and they battle to a standstill. The puck zips back and forth between the zones. The goalies are brick walls. It’s body on body, slams against the boards, checks and close calls. There’s a fight. Dual penalties to the two guys who started it. It’s 4-on-4 for a while.

Seven minutes left and Kent’s back on the ice after a few minutes to chill on the bench. He has to get his team back in this game. Benjy gets him the puck and he goes, driving up the right-hand lane, then feinting, then angling toward the center. There it is. His golden chance. He slams his stick forward. The puck goes flying right past the glove of Snow.

The Aces are back in it. 3-2. Kent takes a seat. Here comes Swoops’ line. They’ll even the score. Kent’s sure of it. It wouldn’t be his story without a come-from-behind victory.

But what does Kent really know about stories, in the end? It’s easy to tell a story from a distance. It’s easy to make predictions about what’s going to happen in a year, or a month. To say a goal is gonna happen in two minutes’ time, that’s a harder thing. Even with Swoops and the boys taking the lion’s share of shots on goal, nothing’s guaranteed to happen. The seconds keep ticking away, and the puck keeps not going in the net.

What happens, if the Aces lose?

Kent hasn’t thought to make up a story for that. And now, watching the action, he finds himself unable to come up with one. He’s left without a contingency plan, without a failsafe. It’s terrifying. His legs wobble underneath him as he rises to watch a long shot from the blueline that goes wide. Fuck. He can’t do this now. He can’t panic.

He supposes that, if he loses, he’ll lose Jack for good.

Will he lose Alexei, too?

The thought’s immediately both horrifying and reassuring. Reassuring, because his relationship with Alexei’s never been tied to the result of a game. Horrifying, because regardless of how Kent does in this game, he may already have lost Alexei, just by being himself. His stupid, screwed-up self who couldn’t let go of a dream that he may not even end up getting after all.

God damn. God _damn,_ but he’s been stupid. He’s had this great thing in front of him, close enough to reach out and touch, and he couldn’t even get his shit together enough to hold on to it. Kent’s not the kind of guy to have a soul-crushing realization of who and what he really wants, but the regret that courses through him now is pretty damn close to it. He knows now that if he’s smart he’ll go running after Alexei when this whole thing is over. That if he has an ounce of sense left in his trauma-addled noggin, he’ll beg for Alexei to take him back.

Something in him is still saying _not yet. The story isn’t over yet._ But Kent understands it now. It’s not the voice of destiny, or of a once-in-a-lifetime chance at love. It’s finality. It’s resolution. There _is_ a story playing out here, and Kent may not know any more how it will end, but it will. And soon. He just has to hold out a little longer.

He’s back on the ice with three minutes left, and so are Jack and Alexei, battling it out in a desperate attempt to wrap up this game -- for Kent, to tie things up; for Jack and Alexei, to keep their lead intact. Kent gets the puck and tries to move forward out of the neutral zone into enemy territory. Alexei’s there. He has to circle back around to his own zone, look for another opening.

He gets Jack instead.

Jack tails him, close as a shadow, then spins around to face him down. One more time, his gaze locks with Kent’s. Kent gets a good look, then, at the fire in his eyes, that spark that had seemed so unfamiliar before. This time, Kent knows exactly what it is. He’s recognized it in his own expression many times. And lately, he’s been boggled by the lack of it.

It’s Jack’s _story_.

The realization goes through Kent like a lightning bolt. Jack’s chasing after something. Something he can only get with that Cup in his hands. Whether it’s glory or redemption or something else altogether, Kent doesn’t know, but whatever it is, it’s motivating the hell out of him right now. All this time, Kent’s been wrapped in his own story, clinging to it and fighting it and mourning it by turns, but it’s never occurred to him until this moment that Jack might have his own story. And maybe it’s the last gasp of a love that’s burnt down to its very last ember, but Kent suddenly can’t bear to deny it to him.

In that moment he realizes how far he’s come since last year. How much he’s moved, changed --- how much he’s been changed. How much he’s let the world around him shift.

And how okay he is with that. How, for the first time, he feels okay right where he is.

Kent plays his hardest. He doesn’t give up until the last second. But as Jack steals the puck, swerves and shoots past Ozzie’s glove, Kent knows it’s over.

The final two minutes of play are like walking underwater. Everything’s slow and murky. The cheers of the crowd are miles away. Kent looks at the faces of his teammates, his heart constricting painfully at each resigned and dejected face. _I’m sorry,_ he wants to tell them all. _This is how it feels when a dream dies. I know. I hate it, too._

When the horn sounds and the ice is flooded with ecstatic players in blue, though, Kent doesn’t hurt nearly as badly as he should.

* * *

He returns to the locker room, but as his boys strip down and shake off the disappointment with sweaty hugs and punches to the well-worn wood of the stalls, Kent’s removed. He strips off his jersey and underarmor, and pulls on a long-sleeved shirt. He’ll be there for his boys soon, but right now he’s needed somewhere else.

Nobody notices at first as he returns to the bench, then steps onto the ice and hangs near the boards. The attention of the whole crowd is fixed on the Stanley Cup-winning Providence Falconers, taking home the trophy for the first time in the history of their club. And that’s as it should be. Kent’s watching them too.

He watches Jack skate to center ice, touch the Cup reverently, shake St. Martin’s and Robinson’s hands. He’s glowing, and Kent can feel the happiness he’s projecting even from here, on the corner of the ice. It was a happiness they were supposed to share, someday, and now he’s on the sidelines watching Jack appreciate it with different teammates. It feels legitimately awful. At least, when Kent thinks about what was _supposed_ to happen, it feels awful.

When he thinks about what’s actually happening, now, though, it doesn’t.

As Jack is about to skate off, Kent feels his moment approaching. He skates forward. “Zimms,” he calls.

Jack turns, sees him. The smile falls off his face.

Kent feels the slow skate toward Jack as though in half-time. He can hear the announcers as though he has a TV antenna in his head:   _Is that Kent-- Kent Parson is back on the ice, ladies and gentlemen. He’s skating over -- to congratulate Zimmermann, probably. Can’t hear what he’s saying from here._

Jack’s meeting him halfway, skating away from the pack to join him. Kent lobs him a smile. “Congrats,” he says, and holds out his hand.

Jack takes it. They shake. Kent can feel the eyes of the arena on them.

“Good playing, Zimms,” he goes on. “You guys earned it.”

“You didn’t make it easy for us.” Jack’s half-smiling. His smile makes Kent feel a little shaky inside, but it doesn’t hurt, not the way Kent was expecting him to.

“Hell, no, we didn’t.” Kent returns the smile. Out of the corner of his eye, he thinks he sees Alexei, standing at the edge of the rink with the rest of the club. Is he watching? Or is he so swept up in the celebration that he hasn’t noticed Kent’s presence? Kent’s all muddled up with the possibilities.

The improbability of this moment strikes him, then. Here he is, face to face with Jack, the two of them sharing smiles after the longest drought -- and Kent’s worried about Alexei.

“Kent,” Jack says, and there’s a small tremble in his voice. “Thanks. For-- well. Just thanks.”

Kent reaches out and pulls him into an embrace.

Now he can see Alexei looking. Kent smiles. He whispers something in Jack’s ear. Jack huffs out a laugh, nods, and clasps his hands around Kent’s waist for the briefest of instants. In that moment, Kent feels the strings detach, the weights lift. Here he is, with Jack, at the climax of the tale, and Kent knows that _this_ is the moment. This is the resolution he’s been waiting for.

It’s all over. The story’s over. And Kent Parson is free.

He shares one more smile with Jack and skates away.

* * *

The canal is as dark and beautiful tonight as it was all those months ago, but the air is full of spring life and the possibilities of an oncoming summer. The chill is gone, and Kent’s sweating lightly as he walks down the footpath, alone and unencumbered. He spent several hours with his team after meeting Jack on the ice, and those who needed to cry or swear or punch things did what they had to.  Kent was there for them, and for the first time, he’s kind of proud of that. The C isn’t just a letter sewn on a jersey. It means something, and tonight he meant something too. What a difference a year makes.

He wanders downstream, past the park and the buildings and toward that pier where he and Alexei had sat, nine months ago, and talked until dawn. He considers stopping and getting some all-night ice cream, but the city is alive with celebration and Kent doesn’t exactly want to walk into the middle of it. He stays down here, shadowed by the trees, making his way across the city like a thief.

He has to laugh as he approaches the pier. Of course. What else was he expecting?

“I thought you’d be partying all night,” he calls out.

Alexei straightens up, turns. A bulky bag sits at his feet. “Was waiting for you,” he says. “But thought maybe you’re feeling bad, not coming.”

“I feel fine,” Kent tells him. “I was just strolling down Memory Lane. Remember when we were chucking stones at that drink? Way back when?”

“Was October,” Alexei says. “I remember.”

“That was fun.” Kent’s mouth slips sideways into a smile. “And then we ended up screaming our heads off.”

“Was fun.”

Kent walks to his side, looks up at him. “It’s good to see you, Tate. I mean. Other than on the ice.”

Alexei’s gaze is unbearably soft. “Is good seeing you too, little mouse.”

“Yeah, about that.” Kent folds his arms behind his head and stares out into the harbor. “Funny thing, really. You said to me I was a mouse because I was so comfortable in my hole I didn’t ever want to come out.”

“I did.”

“And then you did your level best to drag me out of it, kicking and screaming.” Kent can’t help grinning. “I never said thank you for that.” He pauses. “Thanks, man.”

“How you feel?” Alexei asks.

“You know what? I feel fucking good. Not like, ready to play another series good, but pretty damn good.” What he wants to say is that he’s ecstatic to find Alexei here, that he’s finally free and he has a million things he wants to say and do. But Kent doesn’t know how to find the words for any of that. So _good_ will have to do.

“I see you talking to Zimmboni tonight. What you say to him?” Alexei looks a little nervous to even ask.

“Just congratulations. And…” Kent smiles ruefully. “And that he seemed happy lately. That it was good to know he was happy.”

Alexei stands a moment, silent. Kent can see the wheels of his mind turning, processing this information. He gives Alexei a minute to work on it, then lays a hand on his arm and looks up at him with serious eyes.

“Look,” he says. “I’m probably always gonna be a little messed up about Jack. I’m probably always gonna wonder what could have happened with him. That’s just… part of who I am, Tate. I can’t erase it.”

Alexei nods.

“But, you know… you were right when you said I was telling a story that nobody was listening to. I’ve been doing that my whole life, you know? Telling myself stories. They made my life mean something. I wasn’t just some kid from New York. I was a hero. I was the main character, and that meant everything was gonna work out somehow. And it always did.

“The thing I didn’t realize, Tate, and the thing I‘m still working on… is that I get to choose which story I’m gonna tell. I can’t choose how the story will go, but I can choose where _I_ wanna go. And that’s something.”

Kent feels his face heating up. The film of sweat on his forehead seems heavy, and he wipes his hand along his hairline, then dries it on his jeans. His other hand stays on Alexei’s arm, dropping down to cuff his wrist lightly.

“And if it’s gonna be that story or this one -- if I’m either the guy who’s always chasing after Zimms being miserable, or the guy who’s fucking around with Alexei Mashkov and having fun-- I think I choose this one.” He cocks his head to the side, offers Alexei a grin. “I think this one’s gonna have a better ending. For all of us. Jack and you and me. I like the way this story is going, Tate. I don’t wanna screw it up.”

“Ken.”

Kent lets his hand slip into Alexei’s. “I don’t know, man. I just - I want this. I want whatever the hell we’re building here. I might…” He coughs, flushing. “You wanna know something funny, Tate? You’re _Alexei_ in my head. Even though I can still only call you Tate to your face, you’ve been _Alexei_ for a really long time.”

“I’m…” Alexei’s cheeks shine red in the dim light. “I’m not sure what that’s meaning.”

“Yeah, me neither.” Kent squeezes his hand. “I think, though -- I think it means that you’re part of me now, somehow. I think it means that somewhere along the line, I think I figured out that I ….” He shuts his eyes and forces the words out. “...that I might love you, Tate. A little.”

“A _little_.”

He’s not sure if Alexei’s voice is shocked or just his usual shade of deadpan. “Yeah.”

“Kent Parson.” Alexei says. Kent opens his eyes and lifts his gaze to the warmest smile he thinks he’s ever seen. “ _Ken._ Is okay.” Improbably, the smile widens even further. “I’m loving you enough for both of us.”

Kent never felt the tears coming, but they come now, stupid unmanly bullshit tears, but he’s tasting them through his smile and he doesn’t care. Alexei bends to him, and now he’s tasting the tears on Alexei’s lips, and oh, this is what he’s been craving. Not just the kiss. Not just the welcome, wonderful warmth of Alexei’s mouth on his. Not just the fierce crush of their bodies together as Alexei embraces him. But this moment, a moment full of beginnings. The first chapter of a new story.

Kent has no idea how it’ll go. And he can’t wait to start.

They kiss and cling and smile at each other for a few more moments, and thank God for the late hour and the lack of cameras because Kent would never, ever be able to live this down if his boys got a hold of it. When it’s out of their system, at least for now, Kent looks down and kicks at the big bag sitting on the pier. “What the hell’s in there, dead bodies?”

“Food and equipment for boat,” Alexei informs him.

“Boat? Wait-- is one of these yours?”

Alexei happily hooks his thumb back toward the _Falconers Point._

“No _shit!”_ Kent brushes past Alexei and surveys the boat. Of course. Of fucking _course_ this is Alexei’s boat. It’s over-the-top and ugly as sin. There’s a squawking bird bronzed on the bow. “You have fucking awful taste, you know that?”

“Was my dream,” Alexei says, “to get big fancy boat. And after win Stanley Cup, party all night on my big fancy boat.”

Kent guffaws. “Well. You’re two-thirds of the way there.”

“I am.” With a big, firm nod, Alexei grins and holds out his hand. “So, Ken… you coming?”

“Am I-- coming--  on your _boat?_ ”

“Why you so surprised? I have boat, I have Stanley Cup, I have new boyfriend. I want to party.”

“I-- holy shit.” Kent should probably say no. He has a hotel room for the night, he’ll have teammates to talk to tomorrow, the coaches will probably call a meeting, there’ll be lessons learned and endless wallowing. It will be a day of suck, and he’ll probably have to be up bright and early for it.

He takes Alexei’s hand. “ _Fuck_ , yeah, I’m coming to party with you on your boat.”

“Good.” Alexei leads him on board and busies himself with getting everything ready to go. When they finally push off, the dawn’s very close to inching its way over the horizon. Alexei hums happily as he steers them out to sea. Kent presses close to him, worming his way into his arms, and steals a kiss. They share smiles. Then Kent finds a seat at the bow and relaxes, feeling the spray in his face and the rumble of the boat beneath him as rose begins to illuminate the sky.

It’s Kent’s second time viewing the sunrise over Providence’s harbor. And it’s the best one yet.

 _Careful the tale you tell,_  
_That is the spell…_  
_-Into the Woods_

**THE END**

* * *

 

**EPILOGUE**

“Tate. Tate, Tate, get your motherfucking ass out of the bathroom and get over here.”

Kent turns up the volume. All he can hear at first are the clicks of shutters. It’s like watching a dance floor, there are so many flashbulbs popping.

“Tate, you fucker, did you know this was going to happen?” he hollers. Alexei finally sticks his head out of the bathroom, toothbrush still firmly inserted between his teeth.

Kent squints at the chyron as though it will magically change its tune if he looks at it hard enough But he keeps reading the same mind-boggling words as they scroll across the screen.

_FALCONERS STAR JACK ZIMMERMANN COMES OUT AS BISEXUAL * STANLEY CUP AND CALDER WINNER INTRODUCES COLLEGE BOYFRIEND * TEAM GMS STAND BEHIND ZIMMERMANN AS HE MAKES ANNOUNCEMENT_

“I can’t fucking _believe_ this!” Kent doesn’t know whether to laugh or cry. He does know that the guy standing up there in front of all those cameras is most definitely Jack Zimmermann, and he’s most definitely head over heels in love with the vaguely familiar-looking blond kid next to him. They’re holding hands, and laughing, and looking in general besotted.

So this was Jack’s story. This was the thing he wanted, that he could only have if he won the Cup. Kent searches desperately for a reason to be pissed as hell about it, and can’t find one.

Alexei emerges from the bathroom, sans toothbrush, and tumbles onto the bed next to Kent. “Your bathroom very spacious,” he says. “I’m falling asleep in there, maybe building tent and will stay for a while.”

“Shut up, did you _know_ about this?” Kent nudges him hard in the shoulder.

“About Zimmboni? Of course I’m knowing, he’s telling us in March or April maybe? Happy for him. Little Bitty is nice boy.”

Kent rolls over onto his back and grabs a pillow to whack Alexei with. “Tate. Dude. Are you even thinking about what this could mean?”

“What is thinking about? They’re happy, is good news! Good news for hockey too.”

“E-fucking-xactly, Tate. Think about it. We could. _We_ could…” Kent gestures at the screen.

Alexei mumbles and grimaces.

It’s not the reaction Kent expects. “What the hell is that for?”

“I’m thinking we are not following very soon.” Consternation paints Alexei’s brow. “I’m thinking is much more complicated for us.”

“How is it complicated? We could be out, Tate. You and me. We could hold hands in public and shit.”

“Little mouse.” Alexei frowns. “We are still _rivals_.”

Kent sits up abruptly. “We are not-- no, fuck you!” He laughs. “First of all, if anyone’s my rival, it’s Zimms, not you.”

“Hmm. I need to be trying harder, then.”

“Yeah, you do.” Kent snorts. “Second, it’s not the first time two guys have played each other and had… an interesting time off the ice. I know a guy in Buffalo who--”

“Not first time, but would be first time _in public_ ,” Alexei tells him sternly. “Anyway. You’re not fooling me at all, Ken. You’re not wanting holding hands in public. You’re wanting attention. Mad the press is all looking at Zimmboni instead.”

“I am not!” Kent finds the pillow and making to swing it toward Alexei again. “I mean, not _just_ that.”

“Anyway.” Alexei catches the pillow in one hand, cutting Kent’s swing short. He lays the pillow behind Kent’s head and pushes him down onto it, a strong hand on Kent’s shoulder. “Maybe I like having you all to self a while longer. You’re thinking of this?”

“I-- uh.” Looking up at Alexei, all freshly shaved and shower-damp, it’s hard to think of anything else. “You’ve got a point there.”

“So,” Alexei murmurs, leaning down over him, “you let me be greedy for a while. We talk about it later. After I win second Cup.”

“After you win-- _what the--_ ” But then Alexei gives him a very good reason not to say another word. Kent quickly mutes the TV, loops his arms around Alexei’s shoulders, and hushes up for a long while.


End file.
